


And In Walks Tomorrow

by Lancinate



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Awkward Sexual Situations, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, First Date, First Time, Fluff, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Identity Issues, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Oral Sex, Rimming, Slow Build, Virginity, and the thoughts that come with it, situational depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 82,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lancinate/pseuds/Lancinate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the attack, things went back to normal, and Steve was left to his own devices - of course, under the watchful eye of Shield. He's not adjusting to life in 'the future' - he's just existing, if that. But then Tony invites him to dinner, and that all changes.</p><p>There is some explicit sex in this, but if that's all you're looking for you'll be disappointed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is so, so, so very militantly ignoring the fact that Iron Man 3 or any of the movies after it ever existed because I am a slow writer and started this before them, though I might integrate some of Tony's character development. Basically, a somewhat unromanticized look at what happens when The Avengers aren't needed and Steve's left to wallow in his depression for a while. 
> 
> The plot is "I wanted this to happen, so it does." It will get angsty around chapter 8 or so. It's going to be really long.
> 
> I know updates have been slow lately, but I promise I will not ever abandon this without finishing it.

Steve taps his feet against the luxurious granite floor, and he tries to keep his hands busy with something that isn't shredding the napkin, because even though it's a cloth napkin and relatively difficult to shred, he's fairly certain that he could make himself feel nervous enough to manage it, if he wanted to.

And he looks across the table, at Tony, and his stomach flutters at the thought that he's on his first date. And then he wishes so badly that this were actually a date.

He thinks that if he were a woman, he'd be able to have Tony just because of the way that he looks. And it's shallow of him, to think that, but when you're sitting across from the most attractive, most charismatic man in America, it's hard not to think about what a waste it is to have a perfect body and not even be able to use it to your advantage.

He wouldn't want Tony to want him just for his body, of course. But it'd be a start.

Tony smiles at him as he takes a sip of water, and Steve smiles back, then hides his face in the menu once again.

He still can't believe that he's here, in this obscenely upscale restaurant, sitting across from Tony Stark. It's been six months since they first met, a little over four since they'd last talked, and he'd never planned on seeing him again. Not after Tony went out of his way to invite Steve places, and then Steve canceled on him, three times in a row, always at the last minute.

He had his reasons, of course, reasons that didn't stand up to scrutiny and couldn't be expressed, because they involved a period of time where Steve lacked the strength of character to make himself get out of bed, much less spend time pathetically pretending that he only wanted Tony as a friend.

He'd gone to that thousandth meeting with the secretary of defense yesterday not expecting much. Not expecting them to make much progress talking about precautions and regulations, as though they could have prevented Loki from appearing through anything as simple as government oversight. And certainly not expecting the other 'Avengers' to acknowledge him with anything further than a simple hello.

It's not that they didn't get along. They just all had lives, separate lives, and Steve had his apartment and Peggy's nursing home and it was hard to stay friends when they were all such different people.

Tony, however, Tony had surprised him, when he sauntered over after the meeting, coming over specifically just to talk to Steve, like there was some value to that.

"Haven't see you in a while," Tony had said, sounding like they were old friends rather than just minor acquaintances, and Steve appreciated that.

"I've been around."

Tony smirked. "Around your apartment, you mean?"

"Yeah, something like that.”

Tony's phone chose that moment to ring, saving Steve from the fruitless search his brain had been conducting for words that weren't insulting. There was something about nerves, and Tony, and insults being easier than jokes, that made him mess that one up every time.

Tony looked at his phone and sighed. "Ah, fuck, I better take this." He seemed just a bit jumpier then, and Steve figured it must have been an important call. "But hey, why don't you let me take you to dinner tomorrow night?"

"Okay." It wasn't like he had any other plans.

"Great." Tony flashed a quick smile, leaning away from Steve like he was on a fishhook, being pulled away against his will. "I'll, uh, have my people contact your people. Or something."

He smiled at Steve one last time before he left. "It's a date."

And Steve knows Tony didn't mean it as a real, romantic date, but somehow he's gotten it in his head that he can pretend it's a date anyway. Because what Tony doesn't know can't hurt him. And if he does figure it out, well, Steve doesn't have much need for a social life anyway.

He's not even sure why he wants it to be a date so badly. He'd always figured that if he ever satisfied his attraction to other men, it'd be some quick hotel room tryst. He always figured it'd never come to that. But then he'd woken up in the 21st century, and he'd read in the newspapers about how queers were allowed to marry each other now, and it seemed like maybe he could have everything he wanted.

So now he's sitting across from the Tony Stark, pretending to be a little nervous and a little excited, looking at the menu and trying to assess which dish will make the best impression. But he's out of his element, so he folds the menu and looks at Tony. "What do you recommend?"

"Finally," Tony says, his face broadening into an excited grin, and Steve's glad he asked. "I'm having the ribeye, which is always good, but the risotto here is great as well. And then there are the short ribs, which I'd definitely recommend, but I'll warn you now, if you get them I may not be able to restrain myself from stealing a few bites."

Steve can't help loving that prospect, but he tries not to show it. "That's quite the recommendation," he says. "Short ribs it is."

He's pleasantly surprised when Tony orders for him, because that's a move right out of the classic date rule book, and even though it’s probably just because Tony can pronounce everything on the menu properly, .

He's more than a little worried about the conversation part of the night, because there's not much about his past that makes for comfortable dinner discussion.

"Have you ever had raw tuna?"

Steve blanches a bit at this. "No."

"That's what ahi tartare is," Tony says, and Steve vaguely remembers the term from when he was watching him order. "It's kind of amazing."

"It sounds... interesting," Steve says, doing his best to be tactful. He’ll try it if Tony insists, but...

Tony laughs. "You'll like it."

"Is it safe to eat raw fish?"

"Absolutely. I was once on this boat in the Caribbean where they caught the fish straight out of the ocean and served it to us." He closes his eyes and sighs. "That was the life."

Steve finds it easy to ask Tony more about that vacation – "I was there for scientific purposes," Tony explains. "Had to bring my own fruity drink umbrellas. And my own fruity drinks." – and then about the other places he's been, and soon all he has to do is nod and occasionally smile and listen and admire the excitement with which Tony talks.

By the time the tuna appears, they're consumed in discussion – or, Tony’s consumed in explanation – and Steve selfishly doesn't want Tony to eat so that he can listen to him talk for the rest of his life.

But he's distracted by the way that they've piled the food up into a little column of marbled pinks and greens and golds, surrounded it with leaves and chips and made it so ornate that he can almost understand why anyone would pay forty dollars for it appetizer. Almost.

"This looks amazing," Steve says.

"It is."

"No," he says. "Aesthetically. I wish I could draw it."

"Hmm." Tony looks at the food, appraising it, and then his eyes turn to Steve, their expression never changing. "I didn't know you were an artist."

Steve blushes, because nobody ever puts it that way. Particularly nobody who's never seen him draw anything. They call it a hobby, usually.

"I was in art school, before the war," he says. "Always figured I'd do my service and then find a job as an illustrator. I did some photography too. Although technology's really taken away the challenge for that."

"And now?"

"I draw sometimes," he says. It's kind of not a lie. In the past three months he's drawn exactly three pictures. Iron Man fighting Loki. Iron Man talking to Thor. Iron Man standing on top of Stark Tower. He has his face mask off in all of them, and even though it's perfectly explained in the pictures, it's really just because Steve likes Tony's face. He keeps them in a box, where nobody is likely to stumble upon them, should people suddenly appear in his life again. "Just little things. Technology's made that obsolete too, it seems."

Tony shifts in his seat, pulling his phone out of his pocket, and Steve watches perplexed as he points it at the appetizer. He turns the phone, showing Steve the picture he's just taken. "In case you'd like a reference."

Steve smiles, and then, even though he’s absolutely, completely against the idea of eating raw fish, he follows Tony's lead in putting a small bit of the ahi on a chip and taking a careful bite. He’s learned that Tony doesn’t exactly like it when he argues. And anyway, it tastes great, once you ignore the little fact of what that is.

"You should get a tablet."

He wonders if that's what they call the leafy bunches on the plate.

"For your computer," Tony adds. He's talking around a bite of food and Steve shouldn't find that attractive but he does.

"I don't have a computer."

Tony fixes him with a look of utter disbelief and confusion, then quickly recovers, gesturing with his fork as he talks. "A tablet lets you draw digital art by hand." He shrugs. "Digital art still needs artists, it's just the tools that have changed."

Steve's not sure what to say to that, so he just chews, trusting Tony to bring the conversation back. When he does, it's to ask Steve about himself, which makes him blush. He's not sure if it's just that he's put so much pressure on himself to pretend that this is a date, or that he's just genuinely nervous around Tony.

No, he's pretty sure it's the second.

And his first instinct is to admit that he's finding the 21st century far worse than he'd have imagined. But then he realizes that's not exactly date material, so he talks about the things he likes about New York, and before he knows it they're in animated conversation again, pausing every now and again so that he can admonish Tony's fork for trying to infiltrate his plate.

It's more than he's ever hoped for, the way that Tony smirks slyly as he tries to sneak the last bite from Steve's plate. And Steve responds with a coy smile, blocking Tony's fork with his own, prepared for a playful, dare he hope flirtatious fight, but as soon as he looks up at him Tony's expression changes, and he backs off, leaving Steve to self-consciously chew the last bite as Tony talks to the waiter.

He's so busy being embarrassed at overstepping the boundary that he barely registers when Tony asks if he wants dessert. And even though he absolutely, definitely wants dessert he finds himself shaking his head and saying, "no, thank you."

So all that leaves is the check. And of course Tony's going to pay, because it's Tony Stark and this restaurant is obscenely expensive, but his stomach still does a bit of a flip when Tony insists on taking it.

"I'm afraid I gave Happy the night off," Tony says, when they get outside. "So we'll have to walk."

And Steve's not sure when it became a foregone conclusion that they were going to the same place but he finds himself okay with that, if it means that he gets to be near Tony some more.

He's not about to admit to it but he definitely walks closer to Tony than is strictly necessary, hands in his pockets because he's not entirely sure he'd be able to stop himself from playfully brushing his hand up against Tony's and trying to play it off as accidental contact, and he doesn't want to ruin things now.

And he wouldn't want to be seen doing that, in public, anyway.

He lets a sort of suspense build as they get closer and closer to Stark Manor. There's a part of him, a small but very strong and ardent part of him that imagines Tony squaring up between him and the door, looking deep into his eyes and taking his hand.

And that part of him imagines blushing as Tony tells him what a wonderful time he had on their date. And that part of him imagines falling hopelessly, deeply in love as their lips meet, as fireworks explode behind his gently closed eyes. And as much as the larger, more practical part of him tries to block out these images, he can't guarantee that there is no hope. Until they reach the door, and Tony doesn't kiss him, he can't completely rule out the possibility.

But Tony just pauses in front of the gigantic front doors and says, "come in for a drink?"

And Steve nods, letting the disappointment drop through his bones, feeling his stomach twist into a strange sort of regret. "Sure."

He follows Tony through the expansive house, listening politely to explanations of this picture and that vase, things that he would actually be very interested in were this any other situation. But he can't quite shake the feeling of being let down, and he can't help chastising himself for creating expectations where there ought to have been none.

Tony leads him into the master suite, a giant monstrosity of a room that Tony apologizes for in a way that tells Steve he's not at all embarrassed by the opulence. Steve looks around, at all of the sharp edges and colors that he's come to associate with modern interior design, and he sits down on a couch that wouldn't fit in his apartment, and he watches as Tony pours them some scotch.

He's expecting Tony to sit in the armchair next to the couch, or to take a seat further down the couch, or even at the other end, but that's because he's forgotten that Tony doesn't have any sense of personal space. When he does hand him a glass and sit down, there’s just inches between them. Not that Steve minds, of course. If there's anywhere he wants Tony, it's right next to him.

He wonders how Tony would feel if he knew that Steve was carrying a torch for him. He probably wouldn't sit so close, then. He's heard it's not as bad these days, being queer. That it's not illegal anymore, and lots of people admit to it. But that still doesn't make it okay.

He takes a sip and grimaces at the harsh taste. He's never been a fan of alcohol, even back when it could get him drunk. Tony catches Steve's eye as he takes a long, lingering drink of his own glass, raising a playful eyebrow over the rim of his glass. "Can't take it?"

Steve's not quite sure what Tony means, but he recognizes a challenge when he hears one, so he drains the rest of his glass, fighting through the burn in his throat and controlling his gag reflex, placing the empty glass on the table seconds after Tony does.

And of course the alcohol does nothing for him, because of the serum, but as he looks at Tony he's feeling intoxicated anyway, intoxicated by the way that they're so close together, and the way the lights are dim and there's a fire and the radio is playing something kind of romantic, and he's reminded of why they can't be friends. He wants him so bad and it's not right to keep that sort of secret from him, and there's no way he's going to tell him.

And he's trying to tear his eyes away from Tony, and stand up, and make some sort of excuse to leave and never come back, when Tony kisses him.


	2. Chapter 2

He's not sure how he got here, what it was that he said or did that got him from point A to point B, and it's not like he's complaining, but then Tony's tongue slips between his lips and he's torn between absolute ecstasy and this sick sort of panic that's seeping upwards from his stomach.

Then there's this involuntary sound he makes, this strange little whimper that seems like it's being forced out of him by the sudden contraction of his groin as Tony's tongue clashes with his. And he's mortified, because it's just a kiss, he's not supposed to be responding so strongly, but even if Tony cares he still doesn't stop.

On the one hand this is perfect, all of the sparks flying that Steve expected and he can barely contain his euphoria, but the other hand – Tony's, to be specific – finds its way to Steve's crotch, rubbing gently against the zipper on his pants. No one's ever touched him there before, not like this.

He's kissed exactly two people in his life. That makes up his entire sexual history. And he's not necessarily afraid of sex but he's also not exactly comfortable with feeling lost and out of his depth. He likes to have a battle plan. He likes to feel, if not in control, then at least prepared for the eventualities.

He doesn't like feeling – knowing – that he has no idea what he's supposed to be doing. Does he put his tongue in Tony's mouth? Should he be touching him? Where?

He wants to make Tony stop, but he knows that if he does that everything will be ruined. He knows Tony thinks he's too uptight. He knows this because he'd once gone to a party at Stark Mansion, and Tony had drunkenly approached him, placed a steadying hand on his forearm and said, completely unprovoked, "You know what your problem is, Rogers? You're too uptight."

So he's not going to say anything. He's not going to do anything. He's going to lighten up, as Tony entreated him to do all those months previous, and he's going to enjoy it. Or pretend to.

He really wishes he could just enjoy it, focus on how perfect Tony's lips feel against his, the soft caress of Tony's other hand on his cheek, but he keeps getting pulled out of the moment by fear that Tony's going to figure out exactly how lost and inexperienced he is.

There's no way Tony Stark is going to want him if figures that out.

All of these thoughts, they're converging in his brain, mixing with the complete shock at the fact that this is Tony Stark. Touching him. With his lips. On purpose.

He's lightheaded beyond belief, but it's more than that, it's a sort of wired, volatile buzzing in his brain, and he wants it to stop but it's like a roller coaster and all he can do is close his eyes and hope for it to be over.

Except he never wants this to end.

His breath catches when Tony pulls away, convinced it's because he's changed his mind, but it's just to start unbuttoning Steve's vest.

"You have too many buttons," Tony whispers, a joking complaint, but Steve fights his paralysis to help him anyway, feeling this little imaginary shock every time their fingers brush against one another.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Tony says, hands hovering. "I mean, holy fucking shit. I knew you were ripped, but I'm pretty sure this isn't physically possible."

Steve shrugs, wishing that all of the attention hadn't suddenly fallen on him. Tony's hands make him squirm as they brush over his nipples and tease the ticklish sides of his obliques, and Tony seems to be enjoying that a lot.

"There's no way I'm taking my shirt off now," Tony says, but Steve barely has time to look disappointed before he smirks. "No, scratch that, yes I am."

Steve's surprised too, by how muscular Tony is, and a twinge goes through him as he sees the scarring around his arc reactor. He's afraid Tony will catch him staring, but Tony isn't watching Steve's face. He's just kissing Steve's chest in ways that would be making things very hard if he weren't so distracted by the thought of the arc reactor. It's more disconcerting than he was prepared for, the way that there's just metal sticking out of Tony's chest, but it's not the strangeness that bothers him. It's the way that Tony just treats it like it's nothing, this little metal circle that's keeping him alive. It scares him, that Tony's mortality is so evident. That he's so vulnerable.

But he's torn away from that thought when Tony ventures lower, kissing down his abs until he hits the place where Steve's skin meets his trousers. And Steve panics, a little, because every article of clothing that they're removing just keeps taking him further from things he's equipped to deal with, and Tony's hands stop caressing his inner thighs and tug at the button instead.

Steve doesn’t want to watch but can't tear his eyes away as Tony lowers his mouth to the zipper, takes it in his teeth and looks up at him, fixing Steve with a look that should be illegal on account of obscenity.

The only reason Steve doesn't turn bright red as Tony exposes his grey cotton boxer briefs, his face brushing against the obvious tent of his erect penis, is that there's probably no blood left in his head. He panics, just a bit, and pushes Tony away, pins him against the couch and kisses him, to buy himself a little time.

His hands want to focus on every little bit of Tony's bare chest, but he has to keep up and so he undoes Tony's pants instead, noting with a mixture of embarrassment and relief that Tony's hard too.

"I have a bed," Tony says, and it's not until he stands up and and grabs Steve's hand to pull him up that Steve realizes it's an invitation for them to go there.

When the underwear comes off, that's when Steve decides that he has to avoid hesitating at all costs, because this is the part where Tony's going to figure out that he's completely lost. He presses his body against Tony's, and because he knows at least enough about what having a penis feels like, he begins grinding the uppermost part of his thigh against Tony's crotch. So far, so good.

Tony was already hard when he took his pants off, and as far as Steve can tell he's not getting any bigger, which means that it's time for them to, well, do it. Before he can let his nerves get the best of him he throws himself down on the bed, spreading his legs the way he'd once seen a girl do in a dirty magazine. And he winces involuntarily, because with what little he knows about sex, he's still pretty sure that his butt isn't going to take a penis the way a vagina does.

He's waiting for it, eyes screwed shut, expecting Tony to tear him open at any moment, but that never happens. Instead, Tony gives a loud, theatrical sigh and the bed sags a bit as Tony sits down beside him.

"Steve?"

He's worried now, but he tries not to show it. "Yes?"

"Open your eyes," Tony says, with a sort of practiced reluctance.

When he does, Tony's looking at him with this look that seems like a mixture of bemusement and disappointment. "We're not going to do this."

Steve tries not to let the relief show on his face. "Why not?"

Tony just smiles somewhat sadly, picking at the bed with one hand. "Do you even want to be on bottom?"

And Steve shrugs the best he can while lying flat on the bed, face getting warm.

Tony's smile grows broader. "I'm sorry," he says. "I should have caught on earlier. I just didn't want to."

Steve knows that feigning ignorance isn't going to help. "Caught on to what?"

"Have you ever slept with a man before?"

"No."

"Just women."

"No."

Tony looks surprised then. "So you're a virgin?"

Steve's shoulders are beginning to get warm too now, and his face is on fire, feeling so utterly exposed under Tony's gaze. "So let's fix that," he says, kind of unconvincingly.

Tony laughs. "As much as I really, really want to, I don't think you do."

Tony reaches behind him, grabs a blanket and tosses it to Steve, who takes it gratefully and wraps it around his too-exposed body. Tony doesn't seem like he's making any move to cover up, but that's okay. Steve isn't going to complain about that, even if getting to take in Tony's body like this is keeping him kind of unbearably aroused.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I – I don't know," he says, because it's pathetic to admit that he didn't want to ruin what was probably his only chance.

"It's okay to admit that you don't know what you're doing," Tony says. "It's kind of cute, really."

Steve wonders how red he'll have to get before Tony lets him leave. He swallows, his head feeling like a swarm of bees went off inside of it. "So," he says, mouth dry because he's pretty sure he knows what the answer is, "what now?"

"Uh, well, I guess that's up to you," Tony says, one hand massaging his thigh like he really wants to touch himself but is holding off. "If you want to, you can fuck me, or I can suck you off, or we can use our hands, and if you don't want to do any of that then that's fine too. Don't think that you have to finish what we started. There's always next time."

"Next time?" He doesn't mean to parrot it like that, but he's not expecting Tony to say something that seems to imply he still wants anything to do with Steve.

It's Tony's turn to turn red, though on him it's just a hint of pink in his cheeks, and it’s possible that Steve’s imagining it. "I guess that was kind of presumptive," he says. "I didn't mean to – I mean, I didn't exactly ask if you wanted this to happen in the first place, so I won't be offended if you want to just leave and pretend it didn't."

"No, I wanted this to happen," Steve says, pulling the blanket even tighter against himself. "I – just, not so fast."

"Fair enough," Tony says, smiling at Steve in this soft, gentle way that catches him just as off guard as everything else has. "So, what now?"

"Hands sounds good," Steve decides, swallowing because he's not even sure about that. "But, I just want to do it for you."

"You sure?"

Steve nods.

"Tell me if you change your mind," Tony says, reaching over to his bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out a small bottle.

Steve nods.

Tony scoots closer so that he's almost pressed up against Steve, and the proximity makes him blush. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

"Yes," Steve says, and that much he's sure of.

But he doesn't, at least not right away. First he uncaps the bottle, squirting the viscous liquid into Steve's hand. And he watches as Steve hesitantly touches him, moaning lightly as Steve's hand strokes the length of his penis.

"You're supposed to tell me how big it is," Tony says, teasing.

"No point in stating the obvious."

Then he kisses him, softer and less hurried than before, exactly how Steve has imagined it would happen.

Well, not exactly how he imagined it, because his imagination had expected clothes and romance, but close enough. As close as he can get with his hand on Tony's penis and his own warm against his stomach, pulsing against him every once in a while as though it doesn't like being ignored.

I changed my mind, he thinks, repeatedly, as the minutes go on, wishing he had the courage to say it. I changed my mind.

He thinks it as Tony teases him with his tongue, and caresses his chest, hand traveling as low as his stomach but always respectfully coming back up. He thinks it as Tony moans against his mouth, as his lips travel up to Steve's ear, alternating between whispers of encouragement and merciless teasing of the sensitive skin.

He thinks it as Tony gets close, stops kissing him and instead leans against him. As his muscles tense, and he cries out, "oh, Steve," and comes in white ropes that alternately paint his chest and drip onto Steve's hand.

He has a strange urge to lick it, but he doesn't. He thinks that's strange. He doesn't want to be strange.

Tony looks beautiful in the aftermath of his orgasm, and looking at him there's a part of Steve that doesn't even mind that he never got a chance to speak up. And then Tony turns and looks at him through heavy lidded eyes, asking, like it's been his plan all along, "changed your mind yet?"

"Yeah," Steve breathes, unable to believe that Tony's going to touch him. That the wildest of his fantasies – only because he'd tried his hardest to keep them chaste – is about to occur. And it's so much sooner than he would have wanted but it's also what he wants more than anything right now so that's okay.

The blanket's slipped down so that it's barely covering him as it is, and Tony just has to shove it away, the tug from that already sending a jolt of pleasure through him. He loses all pretense of composure as Tony touches him, his hips bucking unbidden at the sensation, and he lays his head on Tony's shoulder, buries his face in Tony's neck and inhales, smelling Tony and wishing he could stay like that forever.

He's trying to remain cool, but his breath is coming in gasps when it's coming at all, and then Tony does something with a twist of his wrist that makes him moan out loud.

"You like that?"

"Yeah," he pants, and Tony does it again, making his back arch. And Tony lasted a long time, but Steve's not going to last much longer. All it takes is a few more strokes, and he's seeing white as his hips roll beneath Tony's hand.

There's this overwhelming feeling of elation that swells up in his chest, and it's all he can do to stop himself from telling Tony how much he loves him. That he wants to be with him, always. That he never wants to leave.

But he knows that's not real. He knows that it's just the sex that's making him think that. But he just curls up against Tony, feels him warm and soft and perfect against him, and pretends for a moment that it is.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony's the type to drift off immediately, and Steve wants to stay there, he wants to hold Tony and watch him sleep, watch the way his arc reactor rises and falls with every breath, and then fall asleep next to him, but he doesn't.

Instead, he slips out, careful not to wake him, and pauses at the door just so he can get one more look at how beautiful Tony looks when he’s sleeping.

He goes back to his studio apartment, where all the things he owns in the world are stacked in a corner, and his bed takes up most of the space. SHIELD offered to pay for a bigger place, of course. But he doesn't like feeling like their charity case. And he doesn't even stop to brush his teeth, because he doesn't want to get the flavor of Tony out of his mouth just yet.

Usually, when he goes to sleep, if he sleeps at all, he takes some time to think about all of the people who died in the war. Sometimes he'll try to make himself feel better, think that by this time they'd likely all have died anyway. But that never helps much. If anything, it makes it worse. Usually he goes to bed feeling bitter and defeated and angry at the world. But not tonight.

Tonight he gets into bed, and he bunches up all of his blankets and pillows and hugs them close and tries to pretend that they're Tony. And he closes his eyes, and smiles, and remembers everything that just happened, and remembers the way Tony said "next time," and for the first time since they dragged him out of the ocean, he's genuinely happy.

He’s spent so much time criticizing the future for what it doesn’t have. But it does have Tony. And maybe that’s enough.  
Sunday morning he wakes up feeling guilty the way he always does, and it takes him a moment to realize that there's another reason for that. Because while last night, when finishing with their hands had seemed so innocuous as compared to what he thought was going to happen, now he realizes that he basically had sexual contact with a man he doesn't know very well. On the first date. With another man.

But he pulls the blankets tighter around himself, and remembers how great Tony was to talk to at dinner, and how he stopped when he realized Steve was uncomfortable, and how much he really wants to see him again, and then he thinks that maybe in the 21st century everybody has sex on the first date.

He sits around thinking that maybe Tony will call him. It's crazy, absolutely insane, to expect him to. He knows that. He's knows that you're supposed to wait 3 days before calling.

On Monday, he begins having his doubts. About Tony, about himself, about thinking that he can do any of this.

Tony's 38. If the rumors Steve's heard bandied around at SHIELD are true, that means Tony's been having sex for longer than Steve's been simultaneously alive and not frozen. And he's kind of okay with the age difference, because he's met modern 23-year-olds and is shocked at how young they seem. But he's not sure he's okay with the experience difference.

He's supposed to go in to SHIELD for another test, one of those things that he gives in to just because he feels like he can't take their money if he doesn't let them poke and prod him. But this time he begs off and spends the day sitting in his pajamas, sketching the food from their date, daydreaming about Tony's lips and Tony's skin.

Most of his fantasies are appropriately virginal and chaste, about holding hands and going for walks and falling asleep together, but then sometimes he remembers the way Tony said "I could suck you off," and he pictures those lips and feels the memory of them against his and it gets a little harder to breathe.

On Tuesday he goes for a run, and when he gets back he checks the answering machine, but there's nothing. So he goes to his favorite diner for lunch, making conversation with Carol like it isn't a particularly important day, letting her bring him the senior citizen special the way she likes to. Fury would kill him for that, for the breach of security, but he likes the fact that someone who isn't Peggy knows that he's Captain America.

He feels guilty, sometimes, going out to eat when he could make food at home himself. It makes him feel extravagant and wasteful. But he can’t cook. And there are only so many sandwiches he can eat before he wants something more.

And, he has the money for it. He tries not to think that way, because he knows that it’ll all go away, once SHIELD stops paying him to do nothing. That it’ll be hard to get a job when that happens. But right now he has the money and sometimes he just can’t help spending it.

Besides, outside of Peggy, Carol is his only social interaction.

For dinner he makes three sandwiches, and sits down with a book, and listens to the radio, and looks at the phone more often than is strictly necessary.

He's not sure when he falls asleep. He knows it's too late. And he knows, when he wakes up late in the morning and checks the answering machine and sees that there aren't any messages, that he's been waiting for something that never had a chance of happening.

Instead of lying in bed, hating himself, and this world he's been thrust into, he goes to visit Peggy. She lives in a nursing home an hour outside of the city, close enough that he can ride out there whenever he wants to, but far enough that he doesn’t feel obligated to visit every day.

He suspects Fury had a hand in arranging that. He’s learned that most things in his life now happen because of Fury, and he’s learned that he’s not supposed to know that. He almost wonders if Fury’s the one who got Tony to ask him out. But he’s not that paranoid. 

Usually he goes to see her because he wants to, but today he doesn’t. Today what he wants to do is lie in bed all day, hating himself and the world he's been thrust into. He visits her because he knows she'd be upset to hear he'd done that.

He's not sure how to tell her what happened. He's not sure if he wants to tell her.

It took him a long time to even tell her that he liked Tony. It took him a while to realize it, of course, and even longer for him to decide that in the 21st century, maybe, he could let himself accept those kinds of feelings.

But even then, even when he'd managed to rid himself of the shame, once he was completely convinced that there were no laws against it, even then he'd been terribly reticent. He'd only admitted it, finally, because Peggy had noticed the way he mostly seemed happy when talking about gay marriage and Tony, and asked him about it one day. And he'd immediately jumped to assuring her that he liked girls too, and liked her a lot, still, even now, and she'd smiled sadly at him and said, "I had my life. You should have yours."

It still hurt to think about it. To think about all he'd missed out on.

She's had 70 years to forget he ever existed. He kissed her once, when she was 25, and then she went and had a normal life. She got married, had kids. Her kids got married, had kids of their own. Those kids have kids. She's a different person now. He doesn't have the sort of significance to her that she has to him.

He's had six months to get over the fact that the woman he thought he was going to marry has become ancient over night, her once perfect skin saggy and spotted, her hips incapable of supporting her body anymore, her sight and hearing augmented by thick glasses and large hearing aids.

He loves her. But he's been trying to get over her as much as he can when she's still there, and when he'd met Tony, there was a part of him that was relieved to like him so much. Relieved that maybe he could move on as Peggy so obviously wants him to do.

He was awkward and uncomfortable at first, but talking to her about Tony actually made it easier, their relationship. Because now that Steve has someone else – even though, up until four days ago he'd been someone Steve never saw, someone he thought he had no chance with – they've jumped past the uncomfortable place they were six months ago, and they've jumped to being good friends. And he so desperately needs a friend.

Still, today, he feels like he's testing the limit. Like she'll stop him at any moment and say that it's too much. That he should keep his deviant sexual adventures to himself. So he pushes through it, making the whole thing brief, gliding over the sexual bits like a speed skater over the ice, building quickly to the most important part: "he still hasn't called."

She doesn't say anything for a moment, making him self conscious. "I should have told him to stop," he adds, speaking quickly. "I know. He got what he wanted and now he doesn't need me."

"Nonsense," she says, straightening her glasses. "If he only wants to have sex with you, and you say no, then he'll just go find another person to have sex with. You can't change that. You can't blame yourself for his decisions."

Steve shrugs.

"And don't think that you can't go have sex with whoever you like, either," she adds, wagging a finger at him. "This is the 21st century. People do it all the time."

"Okay," he says, wondering when the world got so morally depraved.

"Do you still like him?"

He nods.

"Then call him!"

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"If he wanted to see me, he would have called."

"Maybe he's sick. Maybe he lost your number. Maybe he's sitting somewhere right now telling someone else that he thinks you don't want to see him."

"He's not like that."

"Steve Rogers, you will call this man or I will call him for you."

He sighs. "Okay."

"Do you know his phone number?"

Of course he does.

"You mean right now?"

"Yes, I mean right now. What do you think they gave me this phone for?"

 _Probably not so that some queer from the 40s can call the man he was stupid enough to sleep with,_ he thinks but doesn’t say.

"Well, go on."

"I-" he struggles for words, breathing a sigh of relief when there's a knock on the door.

Theresa pops her head in, biting her lip and offering Steve a small smile. She’s the youngest nurse there, probably early 20s. And she’s only been working there a few weeks, so while the other nurses have learned that Steve just wants to be left alone, she always made an effort to talk to him. She’s beautiful, too, and right now he feels just a little unfaithful to Tony for noticing. And then he feels a little twinge in his heart because he knows Tony wouldn’t care. 

"I'm sorry to bother you," she says. "Steve, I'm afraid I have a terribly big favor to ask of you."

"Anything," he says, jumping off of the bed, ignoring the amused reproachful look that Peggy gives him and following her out the door.

"This isn't exactly regulation, so you'll have to keep quiet about it," she says. "And if you don't want to, you absolutely don't have to do anything. But I really need to get Mr. Friedman into get into his chair, and nobody from the lift team showed up today."

"No problem."

"I'll help you, and we can get a third person," she says.

"I can do it myself."

"He's very heavy."

"I'm very strong."

She pauses. "The lift position is easier with one person," she says. "But if you drop him, we'll be in a lot of trouble."

"Trust me," he says. "You clearly asked because you really need the help, right? And I wouldn't do this if I didn't think I was capable."

She glances at his baggy sweatshirt, which does almost nothing to hide his shoulder to waist ratio. "Okay."

He has to be careful, moving Mr. Friedman, because he doesn't want to appear too strong. He pretends that the weight of the man's arms around his neck make it difficult for him to stand straight, and then he pretends that he's allowing Mr. Friedman to put most of his weight on his feet, because lifting a 300 pound man isn't something that normal people can do.

When he's done, Theresa thanks him profusely, reminds him that he shouldn't tell anyone what she asked him to do, and then thanks him profusely again.

"I'm sorry that I just walked into your great grandmother's room and pulled you out of there," she says. "She's just always going on about how strong and capable you are, and I thought, well, why not ask."

"We're not related," he says, and immediately wonders why he said it. Of course everyone thinks they're related. "We're just friends."

He sees the shocked look on her face and he scrambles for a lie, wishing he had Tony's ability to improvise. It takes him forever to come up with even the most basic explanation.

"We were neighbors, growing up," he says, finally, after the silence has stretched on far too long. "My family spent a lot of time at her house."

Theresa nods, though he can see she’s still not convinced. "She's a great old lady," she says. "It's nice of you to visit her like this."

He nods, offers a thank you, and escapes back into Peggy’s room.

And then he runs a hand through his hair and explains what stupid thing he just did, and she smirks. "If you think you're going to get out of making that phone call, you're mistaken.”

"I don't even know what to say."

"Say hello, tell him you're going to take him out to dinner tomorrow, and then tell him your 'long time neighbor' wants you to go work on a puzzle with her."

"Shouldn't I ask him if he wants to go?"

"No," she says, shaking her head emphatically. "You never ask. If he wants to say no, he has to work for it."

"Okay." He wonders if she turned up the thermostat while he was gone. She couldn't have, not from her bed.

He dials slowly, part of him hoping there will be another distraction, but there isn't. There's also no answer, though Tony's answering machine message is lifelike enough that Steve almost mistakes it for one. Knowing that he's only talking to a recording makes him breathe easier.

"Hey Tony," he says, wondering if he needs to identify himself. "It's Steve. I had a great time at dinner, and I'd love to do it again. Tomorrow night. I'll be you at your place at 7."

And he hangs up, and Peggy smiles at him, and he tries not to think about the possibility of Tony calling back just to say no thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony calls him the next morning to ask about the dress code and give Steve the code to his parking garage, staying on the phone until Pepper grabs it and dismisses Steve with a quick, somewhat possessive, “Mr. Stark has a meeting now.”

And Steve spends the phone call smiling and pretending to be someone who hadn’t spent most of the last day replaying everything he’d ever said to Tony.

And then he spends a full hour trying to decide what to wear, folding and unfolding and rehanging clothes until finally he decides on a pair of golden khakis, a navy blue polo, and his brown leather jacket. There’s so much pressure, now that he knows Tony will care how he looks. 

He kind of wants to pick up flowers, but he doesn't want to look too eager.

So he shows up empty handed, fifteen minutes late on the assumption that Tony will take a long time to get ready. He's right, of course, and spends the next twenty sitting in the foyer, taking in the opulence of Tony's mansion. It makes him more comfortable than his apartment, though. It's full of old paintings and old sculptures, and at least out here, seems like it belongs in a different era. Like Steve.

He's bonding with a building now. Great.

His reverie is interrupted by a noise at the top of the stairs, and he looks up in time to catch Tony sliding down the banister.

"Kind of thought I'd scared you off," he says, by way of greeting.

"I don't scare that easy."

Tony just smiles, a somewhat infuriatingly superior smile. "So you just like turning me down."

And Steve imagines that’s supposed to be a joke, but he doesn’t get it. "Pardon?"

Tony laughs. "I'm just giving you a hard time," he says. "I'm over it. Barely ever think about it. Didn't mean a thing." He wrinkles his nose and winks, and this time Steve can definitely tell that he thinks he's joking about something.

"When did I turn you down?"

Tony cocks his head. "Uh, well, the party, to start with."

Steve's silent for a minute, and then he realizes what Stark has to be talking about. "You mean that party where you just walked up and insulted me? How'd you expect me to react?"

Tony raises his eyebrows. "You really thought I was insulting you?"

Well, of course. “The first thing you did was ask if I knew ‘what my problem was.’”

Tony looks almost offended. "I repeatedly asked you if you'd like to loosen up. With me. Very suggestively."

“Do you always open with an insult?”

Tony smiles. “Yeah. Your hair is stupidly blonde. Go out with me.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

“Uh but, backing up a bit, you really had no idea?”

He’s not about to admit that, out loud. So he shrugs.

"And, wait, what about the three times you agreed to go out with me and then canceled?"

Steve blushes.

"Wow." Tony's face breaks out into a huge grin. "Wow, you're unbelievable."

He thinks he should be embarrassed, but he’s not. All he can think about is the fact that Tony’s wanted to go out with him as long as Steve has. But he also needs to stop this line of questioning before Tony puts two and two together about their first date.

"Shall we go to dinner?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Tony says, smile still on his face. "But seriously you had no idea? Nothing? Really?"

Steve rolls his eyes, holding the door open, a subtle hint that Tony pretends to ignore.

"I guess it makes sense though," he says. "I mean, because probably everybody you ever talk to is hitting on you. What with that boy next door look and those muscles and everything. So you probably don't even notice it, do you?"

"Dinner?"

"Right, okay, sure," Tony says, finally walking past him. "I mean, am I right about that, though? I'm pretty sure I am."

Steve pauses before closing the door, so he can watch Tony's butt flex as he walks down the steps. And then he feels a little embarrassed for looking, but it makes him feel liberated, too, and he likes that.

It’s a long walk through the garage, and Tony seems to expect him to be more impressed by the cars than he is, so he makes a show of looking over each one as they pass. The are impressive, actually when he takes the time to really look at them, all sleek and streamlined, but he’d still rather look at Tony.

But he can’t do that while Tony’s sneaking glances at him, so he just contents himself with the thought that Tony’ll have to hold onto him the whole way to the diner.

When Tony sees his motorcycle, he raises an eyebrow and says, “I was kind of expecting a car.”

Steve smiles. “I have a second helmet.”

And Tony takes another look at the motorcycle and shakes his head. “Uhh yeah, we’re not doing that.”

It’s like a rock in Steve’s stomach, except that the rock is covered in acid and he hates himself for how quickly it hurts him. He used to have better control of his emotions, he used to be strong and now he can’t even –

“I mean, I’d be fine with it,” Tony says, running a hand along the seat, squatting to take a look at the engine. “But imagine the publicity if someone takes a picture of me riding on the back of a motorcycle with you.”

So Steve reluctantly picks one of Tony’s cars. And maybe it’s better, in the car, because it’s a pretty long drive to the diner. He picked it over any fancy restaurant, because those all feel like Tony’s world. He wants to impress him, of course. But he wants to do it on his own terms.

They sit in Steve's booth, a little one in the corner, and he sits in his same seat, the one that faces the wall, and finds himself a little bit glad that Tony doesn’t know he comes here alone and sits there alone. He feels like Tony wouldn’t understand that. 

Steve introduces Tony to Carol, wondering if she’ll think it’s strange that this is the first time he’s brought anyone with him. And he really hopes she won’t say anything.

"Pleasure to meet you," she says, fixing Tony with an easy smile. "And what can I get for you, Mr. Stark?"

Steve wonders why he didn’t realize that she would know who he was. Of course she would. Everyone does. The world wasn’t like this when he crashed into the ocean.

When he looks up from his menu, something that he's only looking at as a way to not to get caught staring at Tony, his stomach does a little flip. He wants to be imagining it, the way that Tony's looking at Carol, his whole face lit up in a smile, lightly touching her arm as he makes some joke about his order.

Steve's not sure what to do. Tony doesn't think it's a date. He probably took one look at the diner and decided no one would take the great Tony Stark to some dump in the middle of nowhere if they were expecting anything other than a polite meal and some feigned friendship.

And then Carol leaves, and Tony raises an eyebrow at him. "I'm sorry, that was incredibly rude of me," he says. "I forget to turn it off, sometimes."

Steve shrugs, the feeling returning to his legs.

“Oh, and uh, am I right in assuming you don’t want anyone to know what we’re doing here?”

"I um – I guess I hadn't really thought about it," he says, and then he shakes his head, and because Tony’s looking anxious for a decision, he makes one. "No, I have. I don't want anyone to know."

Then he pauses. “Why do you ask?”

“Because uh, this,” Tony says, pasting on a big smile and raising his eyebrows, and Steve turns around to see two young women walking up to their table. “Yes, I’m Tony Stark. One autograph, no pictures, any breaking of these rules and bodyguard here may have to restrain you. Any other questions?”

The girls look at Steve and giggle, and then they look back at Tony. “Why do you have a bodyguard?”

Tony smirks. “New rule, no questions. Now, who should I make this out to?”

Steve watches as Tony flirts with them, and he knows it’s not personal and it’s probably not possible that Tony’s interested in women who are that young, but it’s still not what he expected out of the night. 

“Jerome? Jerome, the young women would like to see your biceps.” It takes him too long to realize that Tony’s talking to him, and then because he’s caught off guard he just rolls his sleeve up and tries not to die of embarrassment as the girls exclaim over his muscles and ask to feel them.

He’s so very glad when they leave, and he breathes a sigh of relief and looks at Tony, who raises his eyebrows and smiles mischievously at him. 

“Jerome?”

Tony seems delighted at this objection. “I’m quick on my feet.”

“I don’t even know them,” he adds, still trying to process what just happened. “Why do they even care what my arms look like?”

Tony smirks. “Caught yourself in the mirror lately, Cap?”

“There is no way that was normal.”

“Eh, you’re right. Consequence of being with me. People don’t think of celebrities as strangers.”

“Speak of the devil,” he adds, putting on that same forced smile.

And Steve sits there as Tony talks to the man, pretending to be interested in the menu and pretending that everything isn’t falling apart right in front of him. He can’t believe he was so stupid. He should have considered the fact that Tony’s an international celebrity. 

He’s definitely ruined this date. If he can even call it that. He wouldn’t blame Tony if he just wanted to leave and never see him again. And well, at least he needs to tell Tony that it’s okay, to leave. That he doesn’t have to stay here for Steve’s sake.

He just hopes Tony will want to leave together.

And as soon as they're alone again he apologizes, maybe a little too much, but he really doesn't want to ruin this, he really wants Tony to like him and want to be around him and this, this isn't how to do that. And he says that they can go somewhere else, he doesn't mind, and then he swallows and offers that maybe they could go do something else. And he wonders if that’s a little too much of an offer to have sex with him again, but he’s not sure what else to do.

And Tony just smiles at him throughout, and then he rolls his eyes. “Narcissist.”

“I – pardon?”

“I’m calling you a narcissist,” Tony says, raising an eyebrow at him, and Steve’s not sure but he thinks that’s a good sign.

“I understood that part.”

“Oh,” Tony says. “Great. They do say communication is the most important part of any relationship.”

Steve waits for Tony to go on, but he doesn’t, he just looks at Steve with this look like he’s completely amused by himself. 

“I’m just not clear on why you said it.”

“Ahhh,” Tony says. “Well. See, you apologized for something you have no control over. That just seemed a little self-centered.” 

Steve shrugs. “Well, I picked the place.”

“And I was aware of the potential ramifications.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, I was planning to. But I’m trying this new thing where I listen occasionally between bouts of talking. And then you said it was your favorite restaurant, so, I figured I should check it out.” He winks, and that simple gesture makes Steve feel special, makes him feel warm from the inside. “And if we leave before the food gets here that really defeats the purpose of that, doesn’t it?”

Steve’s not sure what to say to that, so he nods and fiddles with the menu.

“You’re a good man, Jerome,” Tony says, pasting on that smile, again, and Steve covers his face and groans.

When the check finally comes Carol places it in the middle of the table, and Steve's so sure that he's going to pay that he doesn't even reach for it, he just casually pulls out his wallet and when he looks up Tony’s already sliding a card into the slot.

"I'm paying.”

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Don't be an ass," Steve says, blushing and wanting to take it back the moment he says it. But Tony just quirks his eyebrows and passes him the check.

And Tony’s been very nice and polite for the entire dinner, but as soon as they get in the car he gives Steve a serious look and says, “What’s the deal with Shield?”

“Pardon?”

“What kind of hold do they have over you?”

“I owe them.”

And Tony scoffs. “You don’t.”

Steve shrugs. “I wish I didn’t. But I do. I didn’t exactly have any money left over when they unfroze me. Before the reward money they paid for everything.”

“You have money now. Why not sever ties?”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

Tony smiles. “I know everything.”

His question had been a joke but now he’s pretty sure Tony means it. “How do you know?”

Tony shrugs. “I’m in the system. At Shield. Fury realized he couldn’t keep me out so he put me in charge.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been kind of keeping tabs on you,” Tony says, sort of apologetically. “Not... in a creepy way, or whatever. Just, making sure they hadn’t, you know, turned you into one of them.”

He feels like that should bother him, but it doesn’t. “You mean, no navy blue skin tight suits?”

Tony laughs. “No, I mean, well, I don’t trust Fury. I know that I’ll never be able to, and I can work with him fine, I’m okay with that. But with you, and Clint, and Natasha, and Thor, it just feels like maybe I could.”

Oh. So it’s not just him. “Because we fought together that one time.”

“It’s more than that,” Tony says. “Don’t you think so?”

“What about Bruce?”

“I live with him,” Tony says. “No need to wonder.”

Steve knows Tony knows that he’s avoiding the question, but Tony doesn’t push it. He just takes a moment to curse out another driver, and then he changes the subject. Sort of. “Have you thought about getting a job? Then you could pay them back and be free to pursue... other things.”

"I came pretty close to joining the army," Steve says, and he’s not sure why Tony seems to dislike that. "Except then I found out what that's like nowadays. There's no need for a super soldier when it's all about the weapons."

"What would you want to do?”

Steve shrugs. “What I want to do isn’t practical.”

“Tell me anyway.”

"I wanted to be a comic book artist, before the war,” he says, and smiles, thinking back on that. “Never thought I’d be in one.” 

“And I liked being an Avenger, actually," he adds, because Tony’s got him thinking about it again. "As short as that was."

"That's not over," Tony says. "We're still Avengers."

He nods, doing the best to make his face agree. He knows Tony's still an Avenger. But Steve's not really. He's not sure he ever was. He wants more than anything to be like he was six months ago, by which he actually means 70 years ago, but he feels like that opportunity has passed. He can't miss 70 years of the world and then expect to join in like he can still be a valuable member of the team.

He changes the subject, and Tony raises an eyebrow to show that he knows what Steve’s doing, but he starts talking about himself anyway.

They get back to Tony’s garage, and it’s difficult, but Steve’s steeled himself. He can tell Tony expects him to come in, so as soon as he’s stepped out of the car he swallows and says, “I, uh, don’t want to come in.”

Tony hesitates, looking at Steve as though he's not quite sure what to make of him. "Are you sure I can't persuade you to change your mind? I mean, it's kind of de rigeur to come in after a date these days. Just, you know, for a bit. You can leave whenever you want."

Steve meets him behind the car, stands just inches from him. "My date, my rules," he says with a smile, settling his hands on Tony's hips like it's not a big deal to him that he's touching Tony there. "Guess you'll just have to ask me out again."

And he pulls Tony closer, kisses him once, chastely, pulling away before Tony gets a chance to try and make it something more, because he's not sure he can resist that.

"Goodnight," he says, already walking to his motorcycle as he does so because he's afraid that if he sticks around it's going to be obvious what sort of effect Tony has on him. He doesn't want to feel like the only one who's head over heels just from kissing.

And he looks back, once, before he leaves, and Tony’s still standing behind the car, smiling, watching him drive away.

The next morning he wakes up to a blinking red light on his answering machine.

"Hey Steve, it's Tony." He's whispering, which explains why Steve didn't wake up. "I hope I didn't wake you up, sometimes I forget that not everybody's awake at 3 a.m.. And you should really just get a cell phone. Think about it. But, I didn't call to lecture you on your technology choices. So is it rude to assume that you're free tomorrow night? Because I have tickets for the Rangers game, and I was really hoping you would join me."

He goes to see Peggy feeling overwhelmingly happy for once.

And he walks in the door with a smile, and he's almost to Peggy's room when Theresa intercepts him, pulling him into an empty room with a strange look on her face.

"You're him, aren't you," she says. "Captain America."


	5. Chapter 5

"I- no," he says, stammers. "I'm not."

He doesn’t want to lie. "Not anymore."

“Oh.” She seems surprised, which isn't the reaction he's expecting from someone who just practically declared his secret identity.

“How did you know?”

Theresa pauses before answering, as though his discomfort is rubbing off on her. "I googled you."

"You _what_?"

She bites her lip. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I was curious, and, well, we learned about Captain America in social studies, and Peggy said she was there, when it happened, and you look so –” she claps a hand over her mouth as though she can’t stop talking any other way. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Steve sits heavily on the bed. “Thank you.”

He should be happy. He hates having a secret identity. He should be glad that someone else knows. But he’s not. All he can feel is the crushing expectations. He’d be okay with her knowing, if Captain America didn’t stand for anything, if it didn’t stand for someone he used to be but really isn’t anymore.

Theresa stands with one hand on the foot of the bed, not looking at him. He wishes she would leave. He wants to be alone. But he can’t bring himself to push her away.

She studies him for a moment. “Was she – did you know her back then?”

He’s still just comprehending the question when she corrects herself. “I mean, obviously you knew her, but were you –”

“I loved her.”

There’s this silence that stretches on forever, but Steve’s detached from it, he’s just floating above it, a little bit light headed.

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

"Okay." She stands up and places a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine," he says. It's not.

She leaves, apologizing again, entreating him that if he ever needs to talk she'll listen. And he sits there for a bit, and then he gets up, and walks out of the room, and then he walks down the hallway, and out of the building, and comes so close to breaking the speed limit on his way back to the city.

The next day he almost cancels on Tony, because he doesn't feel like going out. He feels like staying in and heating up some hot chocolate on the stove and then trying to go to bed early even though he's not tired.

He doesn't really care if that blows his last chance with Tony.

The only reason he ends up going is that he never gets around to calling. It’s rude to give such short notice.

When he steps into the car he's surprised to see Tony looking unusually pedestrian, wearing jeans and an oversized jersey.

"You... shaved."

"Strong powers of deduction there, cap," Tony says, winking.

"Why?"

"Trying to fly under the radar. I’ve got a very distinct look, so most people –" he nods toward the mini bar, "feel free to grab a drink – most people won’t recognize me without it."

Steve politely declines, feeling a little overdressed in his button up and khakis. 

"I'd have done it last time we went out but it only really works in crowds. Only sometimes. Still worth a try. We have ginger ale, or water, if you don’t want anything alcoholic.”

Steve agrees, if only for something to do with his hands. Tony finds something else to do with his hands.

"Tony," he hisses. "Happy is right there."

"Can't see or hear anything," Tony says, unbuttoning the top button of Steve's shirt. "Besides, he's very discreet."

He wrinkles his nose. "Okay, he's kind of discreet. But people who are very discreet are also very boring."

"Tony," Steve says, a hint of warning in his voice, as Tony's slides a hand beneath his shirt, gently massaging his chest.

"I'm sorry," Tony says, not being sorry in the slightest. "I just can't keep my hands off of you. You have a very nice body, did you know that? I mean, if I were you, I'd just spend all day in front of the mirror looking at it."

Steve's jaw clenches, his stomach sinking. He didn't want this to happen. He should have known it would.

"Everything special about me came out of a bottle," he says, vision fixed straight ahead, nostrils flaring. "That is what you said, right?"

And for once, Tony Stark misses an opportunity to speak.

"If you just want me for my body, fine," Steve says, because he can't reject him. He can't do it. He needs him. He wants him. He wants Tony to care about him and look at him like he's the only person in the world. But he'll settle. He'll settle for anything and it kills him to know that he will. "But then let's cut the crap, okay?"

"Well, I don't just want you for your body, so, uh, how about we go back to the part where we were having fun." His hand's still on Steve's chest, his tone is light, and it all just makes him want to cry.

Tony's silent for a while, until it becomes clear to both of them that Steve isn't going to respond. Then he extricates his hand, a rush of cold air taking its place above Steve’s heart.

"Look,” Tony says, taking one of Steve’s hands in both of his, talking down to him just a little, “we both said a lot of things on that helicarrier that we didn't mean, right?"

Steve nods, the last dregs of anger dissipating entirely into despondency. Because whether or not Tony meant it doesn't make it any less true.

"I like you because you're confident and capable and not afraid to stand up for what you think is right, not because you have perfect pecs."

He shouldn't believe him. Not with everything he's heard about Tony Stark. But he wants to.

"I'm sorry," he says, wondering how to explain himself without sounding ridiculously insecure. "I overreacted."

Tony shrugs. "Don't apologize. I know I have a reputation. But I swear, I'm really not that guy."

So Steve nods, pretending that it's Tony who was the problem, because it's so much easier than admitting how he feels about himself.

"Are we good?"

"Yeah."

******

The stadium is huge, swarming with people, and where Steve used to be perfectly fine around people now he feels a little overwhelmed. But it makes him feel less like the center of his world, and he likes that.

Tony describes the seats as terrible, but they’re not. They are small, though, so that when they sit down Tony’s leg is pressed against his. And he moves over a bit to give Tony more room, but Tony just spreads his legs wider. He’d should be annoyed, and he has no idea why Tony needs all of that room, but there’s still something he really likes about that proximity.

And he watches out of the corner of his eye as Tony takes a big bite of his hot dog, watches his lips close around it, and he remembers Tony, naked, saying "I can suck you off."

He's glad for the cold air, and the game, and the thousands of shouting fans for taking his mind off of that. He shouldn't be thinking about sex. He should be thinking about getting to know him, and connecting with him, and not the gentle curve of his hips or the way their lips feel together.

"Oh," Tony says, turning to face him, and Steve almost spills his beer thinking that Tony's caught him staring. And then Tony pulls a hat out from under his arm. "I also got you this."

Steve's not sure what to say. He doesn't want to accept the hat and let Tony think he can just buy Steve things, not after they fought over the bill at the diner. But he's already complained about the beer and he wants even more for Tony not to think he's ungrateful, so he thanks him and puts it on.

"Red white and blue," Tony says, gesturing at it. "Kinda fitting, huh?"

Steve musters a small smile and nods.

He tries to get into the game, but it’s hard. He doesn’t know the rules, and he’s a little too distracted by Tony's presence. He keeps wanting to steal glances at him, make sure he's enjoying himself.

Of course, the second he does, arena erupts into jeers.

"What happened?"

"Icing," Tony says, like that's an explanation. And then, realizing Steve doesn't really know anything about the game, he begins narrating it.

That helps, a lot. He’s still distracted by Tony, but the game takes more and more of his attention, until Steve finds himself at the edge of his seat, completely enraptured, swearing when the other team scores.

Tony looks at him and raises an eyebrow. "'Dang it?' That's cute."

At some point Tony's hand finds its way to Steve's knee. And he pretends not to notice, but in reality it's all he can focus on. Part of him is worried that someone's going to notice, but mostly he doesn't care about that. Mostly he just likes the way it feels. He likes the way it makes him feel. To know that Tony Stark wants him back, it makes him bold enough to do something he never thought he'd do in public.

The noise of the crowd dulls to a slight buzzing in his ears as he creeps his hand closer, careful not to look, heart pounding with a sort of anxiety that he's never felt before, not when they gave the serum, not when he was fighting Nazis, not even when he's been kissed. It's not like that now. He's not being passive, and he's not fulfilling a duty. He's taking what he wants, and he knows that what he wants is ridiculously unimportant and even dangerous, if anyone sees them. And the consequences, of all of this, are so much worse than anything he's done before. He's been beat into a pulp and he's been broken and he's been lonely but Tony could crush him if he wanted to.

He's trusting him not to.

He places his hand over Tony's, pausing to let him pull away, to realize that he's not okay with it, but he doesn't. He turns his hand over, threading his fingers through Steve's. He shifts so that there's a gap between them, and they slip their hands into it, dangling them where no one can see.

In the gap between the second and third periods, Steve finally asks the question that's been bothering him all night.

"What does it mean to 'google' someone?"

Tony gives him a strange look. "Uh, it's when you search for them on google. Why, you wanna find out about my past? Because that won't be fun for either of us."

"No," Steve says. "Of course not. What you want to tell me is your choice. I was just curious. What is Google?"

"It's a search engine."

"Search engine?"

Tony raises an eyebrow at him. "Have you ever used a computer?"

It's pretty obvious that he expects the answer to be yes.

"Only to read files."

"Oh." Tony looks like he's on the verge of some cutting remark or another, but he stops himself. "Well."

And he explains what all of those things mean, which just leads Steve to more questions, until Tony says, "Know what? I'll just show you."

"What about the game?"

Tony laughs, and squeezes Steve's hand. "I meant after."

"Oh," Steve says. "Okay."

On the ride home from the game, Tony behaves himself, grabbing a drink and making cheap small talk which eventually trails off, leaving them in silence.

"I didn't know you followed hockey," Steve says, figuring that he can get Tony to fill the silence talking about it.

"I don't," Tony says. "I learned the rules yesterday so I could impress you."

Steve grins. "I don't think you're supposed to admit to that."

"What, and not get credit for all of the hard work I put in? That doesn't sound like me." He winks, raising his drink to Steve and then taking a sip. "What's your favorite sport?"

"Baseball."

Tony nods knowingly, arching one eyebrow. "America's pastime, right."

Steve shrugs, offering up a small smile. It's not like he has a monopoly on all things American.

"I'll have to take you to a game when the season starts," Tony says. "I have great seats, you'll love 'em."

Steve nods. He tries not to think anything of the fact that Tony's basically asked him to do something months from now. He probably didn't even consider it, that it implies they'll still have a reason to see each other. Steve's probably overthinking it.

And while he's preoccupied with that, Tony cups his cheek with one hand, gently turning him until they're looking right at one another. "Am I allowed to tell you how beautiful your eyes are?"

Steve's mind flashes with things to say, jokes to make, ranging from 'no' to an insult on Tony's smooth talking skills, but Tony's not waiting for an answer. Tony's already closed the distance between them, lips pressing against his.

There's a knock at the door and Steve jerks away, bumping Tony's nose with his chin, so that he swears under his breath while Steve wipes his mouth and tries to look normal.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, mortified, and Tony shrugs it off, wrinkling his nose once before opening the door himself.

"You don't have to knock every time I have another person in here," he says, in completely unfounded indignation. "I don't know what I'm paying you for if I have to open my own doors all the time."

Happy grins. "You're paying me for the pain and suffering associated with the last three times.” He nods at Steve. "No offense, Captain."

"None taken," Steve says, not sure what, exactly, he's supposed to be offended by.

He follows Tony into the mansion, into a ground floor office containing what Tony explains is the guest computer, and he takes a seat at the chair as Tony assures him that it’s very easy to use, even a child can do it, even a cat, probably.

“I’m not stupid,” Steve says. He knows Tony’s just joking, but that doesn't make it any less upsetting, being treated like an inferior person just because he’s not from the same era.

“Uh, so anyway, it runs on some sort of electricity,” Tony says, winking, and then he launches into some complicated explanation of parts that Steve catches half of.

He shows Steve Google, and then he runs through some other websites, and then he seems to get a bit impatient and places his hand over Steve’s, rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder, and takes over. And even though he explains everything as he goes, Steve’s only focused on the light flex of Tony’s muscles on his arm as he clicks things, on the soft caress of Tony’s breath on his ear.

He shouldn’t be distracted. He should he able to ignore those things, and he could, because if anything he has too much willpower, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want this to be the only part of his life that he has control over. He wants to let go. He wants to feel like he’s falling, and know that Tony’s there to catch him.

He wants Tony to let him do all of those things that he won’t let himself do. He wants to have sex with him. Tonight. He wants to ignore all of the consequences and all of the expectations, and he wants to do what he wants, for once. He won’t make it happen, he knows he’s not ready to do that, but he’s not going to stop it if it does.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?” Tony’s voice is soft and teasing, and then his tongue slides along Steve’s ear.

He freezes up a little, trying not to react even as the slight touch has this ripple effect, a tingling that spreads across his face.

“Red’s a good color on you, Cap,” Tony says, with a smirk that Steve can feel, and his cheeks grow even hotter.

He wishes Tony wouldn’t call him that. Not now.

“How about,” Tony says, kissing him on the neck, making Steve breathe out hints of syllables that he doesn’t remember forming. “I teach you a little something else now, hmm?”

Somehow they find their way the three feet to the couch, bodies pressed so insistently together that it's frightening, for Steve, to want someone so badly and so physically and so quickly.

Tony slides a hand under Steve's shirt so he just takes it off, shivering as Tony’s hands explore his sides, moaning as Tony’s lips brush along the sensitive skin on the side of his neck. It feels so good, and he can do this, he can give in to this, to what Tony wants. He can do that.

"Tell me what you want," Tony whispers. "I won't do anything if you don't say it’s okay"

He doesn't want that responsibility. He wants Tony to drag him into the underworld of broken morality, to make him give in to his crooked desires. And what he really doesn't want is what happens: his hand brushes against Tony's crotch, and it makes his conscience kick in. He can't be doing this. Not so quickly. Not like this.

"I should go," Steve says, pulling away, trying not to look at the tent in Tony's pants, trying to ignore the pressure in his own. He stands up, grabs his shirt, backs a step away from the couch. He should never have let things get so far.

"Already? Really?" Tony’s frowning at him, breathing heavily, like he’s trying to decide between confusion and anger, like Steve’s just stolen his favorite toy. "Come on, we haven’t even done anything. We can stop whenever you're not comfortable."

"It's late," he says, swallowing. It is. It's very late. But Steve barely sleeps anyway.

"So let's go to bed," Tony says, biting the corner of his lip and, looking at Steve with those eyes, warm and deliberately innocent. And he stands up, takes the step to reach Steve's side, arm sliding around his waist, body coming to rest against his, lips sucking on the corner of his jaw before whispering in his ear, "I need you."

It's hyperbole. It's hyperbole because Tony wants to have sex, that's what Steve keeps repeating to himself as he gently removes Tony's hand from his back pocket and extricates himself from his grasp, trying to ignore the way Tony's lips slide along his clavicle because it's not fair, for Tony to have this sort of effect on him. Tony doesn't actually need him, but Steve might. Steve might really need Tony and he can't let himself blow it just because Tony wants to have sex with him. He doesn't care what Peggy said, he knows that you don't get respect by giving in too early.

"I said I have to go.”

"A minute ago you were just as into this as I was." Tony folds his arms across his chest, looking just a little bit like the person Steve fought with on the helicarrier. "You can't just change your mind when things are getting good."

"I can, and I did, and I'd appreciate it if you would stop trying to persuade me otherwise," Steve says, folding his own arms across his too-naked chest. He knows it's perfect and impressive and doesn't undermine his authority at all, but he wonders if he'll ever be able to get past the way that years of being the skinny, sickly one have made him uncomfortable not being clothed. He still feels that same pressing need to assert himself, to make sure that

"If I'm going to have sex with you then first I need to know that you respect me,” he says, feeling his eyes narrow, hearing that hard edge in his voice. “And it's hard to think you do if you won't respect my decisions."

Tony looks a bit stricken, and any sort of self righteousness that Steve had been feeling evaporates. "Wow," Tony says, stepping away like he's been struck. "Okay, well, way to blow things out of proportion."

Steve doesn't say anything.

"Okay, well, if that's how you feel," Tony says, laughing a humorless laugh. "If that's how Captain America feels, then, sure."

Steve nods, not wanting to make things worse by saying the wrong thing, but still completely opposed to capitulating. He pulls his shirt on, pretending not to watch Tony, who seems to be pretending not to care.

Just when he's decided the silence has stretched on too long, Tony turns to offer him a thin smile. "Happy's off, but I can drive you home."

"I'll walk."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Even ignoring how cold it is, that'll take like two hours."

"Hour and a half. A lot less if I take the subway." He can sense Tony readying himself for a fight, so he softens. "Look, I had a great time tonight. I'm just not ready for things to move so quickly."

Tony thinks it over, which Steve knows is just for show because there's no way Tony has ever thought that slowly in his life. But what Tony finally decides on is a begrudging smile. "I did too. I'm just not used to things moving so slowly."

They let that hang in the air, let things cool off a bit, Tony's slacks still advertising his arousal.

"So," Steve says, feeling bold. "Do I get a good night kiss?"

Tony laughs, but it's a real laugh this time. "You're a fucking tease, Rogers," he says, smile playing on his lips.

"That's not a no.” Steve catches Tony's hand in his, his other hand sliding into Tony's hair, and he kisses him, a kiss that's decidedly, forcefully chaste except for the way that he’s practically wrapped around him.

He wants to get cocky on him, to tease him a bit, with his fingers or his tongue, and then pull away, lean back one last time to whisper in his ear "I'm worth it."

He wants to, but he's not sure. He's not at all sure that he is. He used to be, maybe, but now –

"You okay there, Cap? The kiss wasn't that bad. And look, I'm keeping my hands to myself." He holds them up to prove it. "And it's killing me, it really is."

Steve smiles a small perfunctory smile. "I'm tired," he says, which is a true statement. And he's been trying so hard not to be too assertive about things Tony would find trivial, but he can't let it go anymore. "And, would you mind not calling me that? I'm not a Captain anymore."

Tony raises an eyebrow and shrugs. "Alright, popsicle."


	6. Chapter 6

On their next date – dinner at the Stark mansion, because they can’t exactly keep going out – Tony gives him a cell phone.

"I can't accept this," he says.

Tony rolls his eyes. "It's not a present for you, it's a present for me. Think of it like a walkie talkie. I have one, and you don't, which makes mine kinda useless."

"I already have a phone," Steve says, looking at his reflection on the surface of the sleek rectangle.

"Yeah, but not like this," Tony says. "This one lets you send text messages."

"Instead of an answering machine?"

Tony smiles. "Sort of."

"I like hearing your voice."

"Stop making excuses and just say thank you."

"I'm not kidding, Tony." He hears the hard edge to his voice so he tries to tone it down. “I can't let you spend this kind of money on me."

Tony smirks. "You don't even know what that costs."

"I know it's too much."

"I spent two million dollars this week. Trust me, it's not too much."

“What could you have possibly spent two million dollars on?”

Tony shrugs. “Lots of things. Take the damn phone.”

He begrudgingly accepts it, planning to use it once – to call whatever phone company Tony got it from and find out how to return it. But then he gets a few text messages, and learns how to send one, and realizes the utility of having so much extra time to come up with things to say.

It turns out he can flirt, actually, when he's not put on the spot. Or, at least, he can answer Tony's messages in a way that is neither bland nor overly hostile, which is really all that he can ask of himself at this point in his life.

On their fifth date, Tony calls to apologize and say he's in Malibu, and he won't be able to make it. He hopes Steve wasn't already on his way over.

"This won't happen again," he says, after telling Pepper to please just give him a minute, it's an important call. "No, actually, it will, probably. Definitely. I'm not very good at remembering things. But I am sorry."

As much as Steve was looking forward to seeing him, the honesty's almost enough to make up for it. And what really makes up for it is when Tony calls him later, when they can actually talk. He turns down Tony’s requests to let him fly Steve out, and he quietly defuses Tony’s plan to take him to LA another weekend and show him the sights. That’s taking the charity way too far. But aside from that it’s great, and even though it irks him when Tony tries to spend money on him, it still makes him feel good, that Tony wants to. 

He's not sure what Tony's game is. He wants to think that he doesn't have one, because Steve gave him the go ahead and he turned it down, but he still can't imagine what Tony gets out of just talking to him. He's not a good conversationalist, not where Tony's concerned, and even though Tony protested when he was put on the spot, Steve still knows most of his worth comes from his body.

But Steve loves listening to Tony, so he keeps his doubts to himself and he asks a lot of questions. And when Tony interrupts himself to say "hey, it's pretty late, should I let you get to bed?" Steve instinctively says no before realizing that Tony was just looking for a way to end the conversation.

By the time he realizes that, though, it's too late to fix it.

But in the next few weeks they spend what seems like all of Tony’s free time together, so Steve assumes he didn’t mess things up too badly.

Part of it is because Tony’s teaching him how to use a computer. It’s slow going, taking up most of Tony’s lunch breaks. And Steve is terrible at it, really awful, he can never remember all of the commands, and then it seems like there’s always something new that he has to master. It’s like learning a whole new language. 

And Tony keeps saying that he’s doing great, picking it up really fast, but Steve finds it really hard to believe that computers would be so popular if it was impressive to be hopeless at coding after weeks of tutoring from one of the smartest men in the world.

The downside to spending what seems like all of Tony’s free time together is that the rest of his free time tends to occur at night.

Steve always heard that the way relationships worked was that eventually the guy would start pressuring the girl to have sex and she would either hold out until they got married or else give in early and risk getting pregnant just because she loved him.

But with him and Tony eventually is right away, and they're both men and neither of them can get pregnant so it's all that Steve can do to slow that race down to a pace that doesn't terrify him out of his mind. He wants it too, he just doesn't know how to give in when it goes against everything he's been taught.

And Tony reassures him that it's fine with one breath and gets frustrated in the next, but it's nothing that Steve hasn't been thinking, himself. They're both fighting Steve's conscience. Tony's just trying a little harder, because Steve's not entirely sure that his conscience is wrong. He's not entirely sure that this is how fast things are supposed to move with someone you're not even going steady with.

"Yeah, no problem," Tony says one night, when Steve calls to say that it's too late to come over, after all. "I'm sure I can manage to get blue balls on my own for once."

There's silence on the line where Steve can't think of anything to say.

"I'm kidding," Tony adds, forcefully, and pauses. "Kind of."

It's not that he means for things to get that way. It's just that Steve finds it hard to be around Tony and not be touching him, and when he's touching him, no matter what they're talking about there's always that moment when he has to kiss him, and it turns out that Tony is terrible at saying no to things that he wants.

"Jesus Christ," Tony says, on a night when they've gotten particularly far, when Steve's so close to capitulating before reality crashes down upon him and makes him stop. "I haven't masturbated this much since middle school."

Steve doesn't masturbate. His frustrations come out in his dreams, dreams that are vivid and detailed and sensual. Dreams where he kisses every part of Tony's body, dreams that he falls into halfway, so that they're already naked, cleverly skipping over his recent inability to make it past the stage where the pants start to come off. 

Dreams where Tony ejaculated in Steve's mouth and he swallows it, unwilling to miss a drop, like there's something special about his sperm. Something that leaves him feeling warm and comforted from the inside out, so that even if he wakes up and finds that his sheets could maybe use changing, he just curls up and thinks about him some more. That feeling – it makes him worry that the real thing could never be nearly as good as the things he and Tony do in his sleep.

"So just to clarify,” Tony says, over lunch one day, “you're not one of those "no sex until marriage" types, right?"

And Steve thinks that's a strange way to put it, because obviously if he's going out with Tony he's not planning on getting married. But he understands what he's asking. "No."

"Then you gotta give me something to go off of," Tony says, teasing in a way that Steve has learned means he's serious. "I don't mind waiting, but does waiting mean days, or weeks, or months, or years, or what?"

It's a question Steve would love to have the answer to.

He spent years upholding this self-imposed honor code that he didn't have to uphold and now he has nothing to show for it, but it's still so difficult to break.

"Weeks, I guess," he says, trying not to show the irritation in his voice. "I don't know. When it feels right. I'm not trying to make this difficult."

Tony notices anyway. “Calm down. It was just a question.”

“It was just an answer.”

Tony shrugs. “Okay, forget I said anything.”

On the 14th, he agrees to meet Tony at Stark Tower for dinner. But it's later than usual, at a time when Steve has to let himself in by key card, and when he does there’s no one in the lobby to avoid.

Tony meets him on the bottom floor, but instead of going outside he immediately turns and leads him back to the elevator, pushing the button for the top floor before he pins Steve against the wall and kisses him.

"I forgot something upstairs," Tony says, a strange little excited smile on his face. "Won't take long."

When they get off it’s at Tony’s top floor, the one with the Iron Man landing strip. And Steve follows Tony out of the elevator, wondering what he could have possibly been doing out there.

And then he sees it. The landing has been decorated, and there’s a candle-lit table, and Steve can only blink and wonder what this means.

"Happy Valentine's day.”

Oh. "Oh, Tony, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot –"

Tony rolls his eyes and cuts him off with a kiss. "Don't be so serious and responsible all the time. Just enjoy it."

And he does. The seclusion of Stark Tower gives them all of the privacy that they can't have in public, lets him hold Tony’s hand and eat off his plate and stare into his eyes and other things that Steve thought were stupid before he had the chance to do them. It lets them flirt without any sort of fear that someone’s going to see. It’s great.

Tony's gotten everything they ate on their first date – "I thought about doing our second, since it was kind of our first, but that's something you eat all the time," he explains – and it’s like a chance to redo it, to enjoy it properly.

Dinner seems to pass so quickly, and when Steve looks down at his watch and realizes it’s been more than two hours, he’s shocked.

And he thinks that he should mention how late it’s getting, but, well, there’s something that he’s been wanting to do with Tony for a long time. He’s just not sure how to ask.

“Do – do people still dance the way they used to?”

Tony grins. “Not the way they used to, no,” he says. “At least, the kids don’t. And I have no idea how to swing dance, but I do know a couple of ballroom steps. What’d you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know how to dance,” Steve admits, self-consciously taking sip of water.

Tony watches him for a second, and then he raises an eyebrow. “Jarvis, we got any good waltzes?”

“We don’t have to –”

“My date, my rules. Now, Mr. Rogers, may I have this dance?”

He stands, feeling foolish and oafish and convinced he’s going to ruin the night by embarrassing himself. And Tony takes his hand and pulls him close, and then closer. “It’s not proper form to have any space between us,” he says, and Steve silently thanks whoever came up with dancing for the way that Tony’s pressed up right against him.

“Just, do what I do, but backward,” Tony says, talking into Steve’s ear. “You’ll pick it up.”

“I’m not so certain that I will.”

Tony laughs. “I can go put on some steel toed boots, if you would prefer.”

Steve smiles, and he realizes that they’ve already started swaying to the music. And it’s an easier segue than he expected, but trying to actually dance, even with the quick explanation of the steps that Tony gives him, is still harder than he’d expected.  
Tony’s patient though, and he slows down, walks them through it again, has Jarvis slow the music down so they can try it at a glacial pace. And even though Steve’s awful at it, he doesn’t mind that so much. Not when there’s a strong guiding hand on his shoulder and Tony’s breath hot on his ear as he whispers direction.

He tries not to watch his feet too much, tries to look at Tony, but that’s not very successful. None of it’s very successful. But it feels okay to laugh, it feels great, actually, to fail and then laugh with Tony about it. To support Tony as he collapses, sobbing with laughter, against Steve’s chest, and then to try it again.

“I’m so glad you’re bad at this,” Tony whispers, and Steve’s not sure how that seems romantic, but it does. It makes him feel safe in this inexplicable way, to be liked for doing something poorly.

And then Tony gives up and just wraps both arms loosely around his neck, swaying in place. “I call this one the junior prom,” he says, smirking. “Not nearly as refined, of course, but much better for... other things.”

Steve doesn’t have to wonder what those other things are. He looks into Tony’s eyes and then he closes his eyes and kisses him, soft and slow, like they’re the only two people in the world. And from their vantage point, high above everything, they may as well be.

It feels completely like a fairytale. He’s standing hundreds of feet above Manhattan, seventy years in the future, big and strong and physically perfect, kissing a man who he’s in love with, as Tony’s almost sentient building plays some song about – well, he’s not sure what it’s about, because most of the lyrics seem to be la, la la la la – but it’s futuristic and a little sad and somehow still sweet.

His life seems more perfect than he could ever have imagined it being. 

After that he's expecting them to go back to their usual date-time activity, expecting Tony to needle him a little harder because it's a special occasion, to remind him of how long he's been waiting and how much effort he's put in. Let him know that there's a scale, weighing all the things Tony does for him, and now that it's tipped, he's obligated to have sex with him.

He’d do it. He’d do anything, right now, if Tony asked him.

But Tony doesn’t ask. Instead, he leads Steve back inside, turns on the fireplace, and the television, and they curl up on the couch and watch Roman Holiday.

And if Tony's intention is to make Steve fall in love with him, it's working. And if Tony's intention is to make Steve sleep with him then that's working too. Because lying there, nestled between Tony and the couch, Tony's back pressed firmly against his chest, he feels more secure than he has in quite a long time. He feels like his life has purpose again, and meaning, and even if that purpose is just to cuddle with Tony forever he's okay with that because at least it makes him feel good for once. And he wonders why he's been so insistent on avoiding something that they clearly both want, just because he thinks he's supposed to.

When the movie's over, and they're still cuddling on the couch, Steve can only think about how perfect it is.

The next thing he knows, he’s being shaken awake. “Come on, sleepyhead. I have an actual bed here.”

Steve sits up and rubs his eyes. “I should go home,” he says, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“It’s late, you’re tired. I’ll sleep on the couch if you want me to.”

“No, you don’t have to do that.”

“Good,” Tony says. “I was bluffing.”

Steve yawns. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“Uh-uh, not happening,” Tony says. “Come on. I’m not gonna start anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Steve blushes. “No, I –”

“I’m just teasing,” Tony says, and maybe it’s a good thing he cut Steve off, because Steve was about to say that he wouldn’t mind that.

And it’s true, he wouldn’t, but he’s so very tired, and maybe he should sleep on it.

As for sleeping here, he’s a little worried that he can't trust what his dreams will be like. He doesn't wake up in a cold sweat, not anymore, hasn't for months. That still doesn’t mean he won’t.

But, well, Tony's asked him to sleep over before – or, at least, mentioned it in passing, or because it was late, or because they'd wound up watching a movie on Tony's bed and neither of them wanted to get up – and Steve's always said no. He shouldn’t say no again.

It’s a little thing, but he thinks it’ll make Tony happy, and he really wants to make Tony happy.

He wakes up feeling comfortable but very disoriented. And he’s a little concerned until he realizes that the strange sensation on his head is just Tony’s hand, that he’s sleeping in Tony’s bed and Tony’s just absentmindedly stroking Steve’s hair as he sits next to him, reading something on his tablet.

Tony looks down at him and smiles, ruffles his hair, and goes back to reading. And Steve buries his head in the pillow so that Tony won’t see the painfully and uncontrollably large smile that’s spreading across his face.

He’s half convinced last night was an amazing dream. And if it’s not, well, then the unbelievably strong joy he’s feeling is completely reasonable. It’s just not something he necessarily wants Tony to see.

Once he’s gotten that under control he turns over, stretches and yawns. “What time is it?”

“8:30.”

“I should leave,” Steve says, running a hand through his hair, wondering why Tony didn’t wake him.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Why, you got somewhere to go?”

“No, but you have work,” Steve says, and then reconsiders. “Don’t you?”

Tony lifts the tablet. “Got it covered. I don’t have a meeting until 11. Was thinking we could have breakfast.”

“Oh.” Steve smiles, snuggling up against Tony, and yawns. “Okay.”

He runs his fingers across Tony’s bare stomach, thinking about how easy it would be to slide his fingers lower. He wants to, he really, really wants to, but it’s selfish to think that can get in the way of Tony’s work. 

*****

“So,” Steve says, taking the last bite of what Tony had playfully and inexplicably referred to as freedom toast. “Who do I have to thank for all of this?”

Tony chokes on his coffee. “I’m insulted,” he says, grinning over the rim of the cup. “I was absolutely at least 25% responsible for planning and execution.”

“Pepper?”

“Yes, but you’d better not go date her instead. I am a much better dancer than she is.”

Steve smiles, taking a sip of orange juice so that he doesn’t have to come up with a response to that.

“Oh,” Tony says, placing a hand on Steve’s knee. “I almost forgot. I signed you up for a graphic design class.”

Steve spits the orange juice back into his cup. “You what?”

“That’s, uh, not exactly the response I was looking for.”

“You should have asked me first.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “That’s not how presents work.”

“Well –”

“Look, if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to go. I just thought it would be good for you to have something to do. And hell, who knows, maybe one day you’ll get a job out of it.”

Steve shrugs. “Okay.”

Tony smirks. “See, this is why I pretended to almost forget.”

“I’m just –”

“Wildly ungrateful?”

Steve smiles, catching Tony’s hand as it begins to travel a little too far up his inner thigh. “Fair enough.”

“Well,” Tony says, wrinkling his nose, “I guess I have to go get dressed.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, he just plays with Tony’s fingers. He doesn’t want this to be over already.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Unless you have other ideas?”

He does, but – well, he’s not going to interrupt Tony’s work day. No matter how much he wants to. 

So he lets Tony get dressed, and says goodbye to him properly. And as he leaves down the back entrance, the memory of Tony’s lips still fresh against his, he wonders how he could ever have thought that everything in his life wasn’t perfect.


	7. Chapter 7

He doesn’t want to go back to his bland, dark apartment, not after seeing how much better everything could be. He’s completely happy, for once, and hopeful, and just a little bit he has something to look forward to, because he absolutely has to do something in return.

So he goes to visit Peggy, because the last thing he wants to do right now is be alone. He’s happy and he wants to share it, and it’s the first time he’s felt this way in a very long time. He likes the feeling. He feels more like himself.

The only problem with not being alone is that he has to interact with people. And in particular, Theresa will be there. 

He hasn’t seen her in weeks, which is something that has been bothering him, just a little bit, but he hasn’t picked up the paper and seen his face plastered on it so he imagines that she’s keeping his secret. 

And he’s not entirely sure he’s going to see her today, but she usually works Fridays. He hasn’t even seen her since she confronted him, because Tony’s been keeping his weekdays filled, and at this point it’s been so long that he’s not even sure how to approach her. 

His instinct is to pull her aside and apologize, but he’s talked about it a lot with Tony – or, rather, been lectured about it by Tony, because that’s how Tony gets when he thinks he’s right – and he thinks maybe he should give Tony’s advice a shot.

So when he sees her down the hall, he just puts on a cocky grin, meets her eye, salutes, and winks. And it makes him feel completely ridiculous, but she smiles back, and winks, and he breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

And then he spends the rest of the day hoping that she’ll come into Peggy’s room so that he can follow his instincts instead, but she doesn’t.

When Peggy asks about Tony, he just smiles, and says, “he’s perfect.”

And then she asks how the sex is and he chokes and turns red and changes the subject.

He spends most of the afternoon with her, but he’s not very focused. He’s thinking about Tony. He has to do something in return, something to let him know how much he appreciates everything. Something so that Tony won’t feel like he just did all that for nothing.

And he’s thought about it, a lot, but he can’t make sex be that thing he does in return. Because it shouldn’t be about that. It should be about love and intimacy and even if Tony doesn’t love him, it needs to feel like it. That much he’s at least sure of. If he offers sex as a reward then it’ll lose something.

He thinks about asking Peggy, but he wants this to be his idea. 

He’s so preoccupied that when he runs into Theresa on his way out, he completely forgets that he wanted to talk to her. And when she asks him if he wants to go have dinner, he suggests next week, instead, because he has some things to do.

Those things take most of the night because everything he’s thinking of is stupid, or nobody does it anymore, or it would involve being out in public, or it’d involve a thousand things that don’t work, so finally he just picks something easy and commits.

He knows it’s a ridiculous, stupid idea, but it’s too cold to do outside, and he’s racked his brain for something, anything he can do for Tony, and he keeps coming up blank. He feels like it won’t be enough, that Tony won’t like a gesture as much as he likes things. But he has to do something. He can’t just accept that Tony set up that amazing night for him and not do anything in return.

He gets Jarvis to let him into the mansion without telling Tony, and he sets it all up, and then he sneaks back out and rings the doorbell and prays that Tony answers it.

Tony knows he’s coming, of course. Steve made sure of that. But if there’s one thing he’s learned in the last couple weeks, it’s that Tony knowing you’re coming doesn’t mean that he’ll remember you’re coming. 

So when Tony answers the door, five whole minutes later, he’s a little excited to see him. And at the same time, he’s terrified that Tony’s going to take one look at what he’s done and laugh in his face. But he knows that’s actually very unlikely; what he’s actually afraid of is Tony being quiet and polite, because that’s what’ll let Steve know that he really hates it. 

Still, he feigns confidence as he not-so-subtly suggests that they go check out a deserted room, and Tony feigns complete ignorance as he agrees. Steve opens the door, steeling himself to laugh it all off.

And Tony looks around the room and smirks. “A picnic. An indoor picnic. An indoor picnic, in my house, surrounded by all of the plants that I have ever owned.”

Steve smiles. “You’ve got a knack for observation, Stark.”

“Eh, scientist, you know, sometimes it comes in handy.” He sits down, opening the first picnic basket like it’s a christmas present.

And he opens the bag inside of it, pulls out the napkins, sees the contents and lets out his breath. “Oh, thank God.”

Steve smiles and flicks his ear. “Hey.”

Tony grins. “That was a good ‘thank god.’”

“Uh-huh.”

Tony sighs theatrically. “Fine. Thank _you_.”

Steve takes the cheeseburger out of his hand and bites into it, forgetting that leaves him incapable of pointing out that he wasn’t fishing for a compliment. 

But Tony’s a lot more put out by the burger stealing, it seems, because he just frowns at Steve and crosses his arms against his chest. And he clears his throat, pointedly.

“I uh,” he swallows, wipes his face with the back of his hand, “I bought more than one burger.”

“But that one’s mine,” Tony says. “I licked it.”

“No you didn’t.”

Tony smirks. “Technicality.”

He sets his forehead on Steve’s shoulder, snapping his teeth at Steve’s sleeve. “My burger.”

And it’s cute, but at the same time it’s unsettling because Tony’s been funny and Tony’s done funny things around him, but this is just silly.

“Is... everything okay?”

Tony sits up and blinks at him and smiles. “Everything’s great. You’re great.”

He unwraps another one of the cheeseburgers and bites into it. “This is great. You’re an excellent cook.”

“I didn’t –” Steve blushes as the smile spreads across Tony’s face. “Funny.”

“Thank you,” Tony says, this mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I’m supposed to say thank you, right? Because I thought so, but then I got you things and you just got upset about them, so maybe I should tell you that this cheeseburger tastes too good and I’m not going have the rest of it.”

Steve blushes. “I’m sorry.”

Tony smirks.

“I didn’t mean to be ungrateful about the graphic design class.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It just caught me by surprise.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And, I don’t want to sound ungrateful again, but I’m just not sure I want to go out in public and do something on a computer when I can barely keep up with the things you’re teaching me.”

Tony laughs.

“And,” Steve says, smiling because he wants to keep things light, “I don’t appreciate being laughed at.”

Tony covers his mouth. “Does it count if you can’t empirically prove that I’m laughing?”

Steve sighs.

“Look, you’re a genius, no one’s going to even notice.”

“Mhmm.”

“Trust me, it’s going to be so much easier than you expect. It’s a class. They’ll teach you how to do everything. You’ll be fine.”

“Mhmm.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Steve considers. “Depends on the secret.”

“I uh, I kinda like you,” Tony says, leaning against him, and Steve smiles and puts an arm around his shoulders. 

“I kinda like you too.”

They blow through the cheeseburgers, and then dessert is strawberries and whipped cream which is not even a subtle indication of what Steve wants to happen. And Tony catches on to that before he even sees the strawberries, ordering Steve to take his shirt off so that he can lick the whipped cream off of him and Steve’s okay with that.

So that’s how they find themselves both half naked, the whipped cream gone, Tony’s lips on Steve’s nipple. 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he says, and Steve tenses.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Not your ridiculous muscles,” he says. “Just... you.”

Steve knows he should let it go, but he really wants to hear more. “That’s not the same thing?”

“Nah,” Tony says. “Not at all.”

“That’s not much of an answer,” Steve says, joking, but just a little. 

“Look,” Tony says, smirking at him. “I think you’re gonna have to start trusting me to be able to think with body parts other than my dick.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Well, my hands like you a whole lot,” he says, running them over Steve’s chest. “And my lips,” he says, kissing his stomach. “And my tongue.”

Feeling bold he puts his hand against Tony’s crotch, just barely feeling the outline of his dick beneath the thick cloth. And he freezes, waiting for Tony to do something, but he doesn’t. So he tries to withdraw his hand, pretend it never happened.

And then Tony’s hand is on his, pressing him back down, harder, so that Steve can feel everything, and even though it’s Tony’s dick he feels it in his own, and he makes this involuntary noise, this little moan that feels like it’s forced out of him.

Tony stops kissing him, and he puts his other hand on Steve’s cheek. “Stop me if I go too far,” Tony whispers, looking into Steve’s eyes, still holding Steve’s hand firmly against him.

“I won’t.” Steve whispers, and he means it, mostly. 

And Tony raises one eyebrow. “As in...?”

He thinks about it, tries to figure out how to explain himself but he can’t so he has to admit it. “I want this,” he says, voice barely cracking above a whisper.

Tony smiles. “You mean you want _me_.”

Steve makes a small noise of assent.

“Say it.”

“What?”

“Say that you want me.”

Steve freezes, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Come on,” Tony says, cajoling, relaxed, and Steve was expecting him to be ripping his clothes off, and Steve would kill for a little bit of that now because it was hard enough to admit that he wants to have sex but now Tony’s just drawing this out for kicks. 

Except this one’s not so hard to say. He blushes harder and whispers, “I want you,” and it’s so liberating and arousing to admit it.

Tony kisses him, hard and ardent, kisses him like he’s going to disappear if he doesn’t, and Steve tangles his hand in Tony’s hair and sucks on his bottom lip and tries to lose himself in kissing.

He knows he shouldn’t be nervous because technically they’ve done this before. But his heart’s beating too fast, his breaths coming a little too ragged, as he slides his hands under Tony’s waistband. 

And then the pants are off and Tony’s hands move to Steve’s belt. “Your turn.”

Steve shakes his head, he’s not ready for that, and Tony raises an eyebrow. And that look of surprise increases as Steve settles his hands on Tony’s boxers, hesitantly pulling them off.

“But you are going to take your pants off eventually,” Tony says. “Right?”

Steve nods, preoccupied by the sight of Tony stretched out beneath him, thighs sparsely peppered with dark hair, hard cock resting against his stomach. He’s seen him naked before, that one night, but it’s even better now. 

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Tony clears his throat. “Don’t tell me. You wish I’d waxed my balls first.”

“No,” Steve says, trying not to wonder if that’s a thing people do now. “No, you’re perfect.”

“Well, that’s a gross overstatement.”

Steve smiles, bending over to kiss Tony’s stomach, so very aware that his face is inches from Tony’s cock, so very aware that if he moved just a little bit, his lips could close around him.

He doesn’t do that, though. He travels away from it instead, licking the smooth skin at the base on Tony’s oblique, and then running his teeth lightly along his hip.

Tony clears his throat pointedly. “Little to the right, big hard cock, can’t miss it. Just, you know, don’t use the teeth.”

Steve turns slowly to give him a reproachful look.

“Or I guess this works too,” Tony says, smirking, closing his eyes as Steve runs a hand along the inside of his thigh. “Uh, but fair warning, at this pace you have maybe five minutes before I jump you.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Steve says, because he wouldn’t mind that. He’s not sure how he took control of this in this situation, and he’s not exactly sure what to do next. And he’s glad Tony’s eyes are closed, because it takes away some of the pressure he’s been putting on himself to get this right. 

He kisses the tip of Tony’s dick, wrapping a hand around it for support, and this earns him a positive sound so he does it again, and after that he thinks he should put it in his mouth, but there’s another part of him that thinks that’s not right.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits, because Tony told him that was okay, to admit that.

Tony just groans, and then he sits up, running a hand through his hair. “I knew this was too good to be true.”

Steve bites his lip and blinks and tries not to show how much that hurts, and Tony rolls his eyes. “Teasing. Lighten up. I’ll show you.” 

His hand is firm on Steve’s shoulder as he pushes him back onto his elbows, the other already unbuttoning his trousers.

He makes a noise, and it’s not necessarily a bad noise but Tony takes it as one anyway. “The pants have to come off at some point,” he says, tugging them down Steve’s hips. And he closes his eyes and nods, because he doesn’t trust himself to form the proper words.

Tony licks him first, a long stripe up the underside before his lips close around Steve’s dick and the feeling is unbelievable, it doesn’t even compare to Tony’s hand. And he stops just to tell Steve how good he tastes, then looks him right in the eye as he swallows the entire length and Steve’s surprised he doesn’t explode right then.

It’s still fast, it’s way too fast, and he feels like he needs to say something but there’s literally just that quick realization that he’s about to ejaculate, and then he does. He’s expecting Tony to jerk back or do, well, something, but Tony just swallows like that’s the most natural thing, glances up at him again as he does it, and Steve has to bite his lip to stop from whimpering.

“Warn me next time,” Tony says, patting Steve on the hip, tongue flicking across his lip for the drops that he didn’t get, and Steve blushes, and nods. 

Tony kisses his way up Steve’s torso, slides a hand across his chest, as Steve tries to catch his breath and tries not to feel so embarrassed for having lost control like that so quickly. 

But Tony just smiles and nuzzles against him like it’s no big deal. “So what’s your refractory period like?”

“Pardon?”

“How long till you can get it up again?”

“Oh,” Steve says, glancing down, noticing how sad and small he looks flaccid and hoping Tony hasn’t. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. How would I know?”

Tony squints at him. “I’m just talking... like, rough estimation, here.”

“I’ve only had sex one other time, and you were there.”

Tony smirks and kisses him between the eyes. “Shh, no need to get upset. But, well, you have masturbated, right?”

Steve shrugs. “A few times.”

Tony stares at him. “A... few... times.”

Steve’s face gets hot. “Well, more than that,” he says, swallowing. “When I was younger – but I really try not to.”

He’s expecting judgement, but Tony just closes his eyes and moans. “Ungh, fuck, that’s hot,” he says, guiding Steve to stroke him with one hand. “You’re so fucking pure, aren’t you.”

Steve bites his lip because none of this is making him feel pure, it’s making him feel unbelievably dirty and wrong, but in a good way. And he can’t believe how twistedly good Tony’s lips feel on his neck, and then Tony’s warm breath is tickling against Steve’s ear as he says, “come on baby, let’s see what that virgin mouth can do.”

He feels that in his groin, and Tony makes a little “hmm” as Steve gets hard again. 

And then he looks pointedly at his own dick and Steve gets the gist.

He’s nervous again as he holds Tony’s dick but he tells himself that it’s nothing different than licking him anywhere else, and the soft moan that escapes from Tony’s lips as he licks from base to tip is the only encouragement he needs to take him into his mouth. He tastes better than he’s expecting, and he tries to copy Tony by taking him all of the way into his mouth, but he can only manage a few inches. So he moves up and down, uses his tongue along the side, and each time he goes down he tries to get further into his mouth. He doesn’t know how Tony did that, he must have taken him all the way down his throat, and Steve tries that but it doesn’t work.

He focuses on the way Tony’s moaning, on the words escaping from his mouth, tries to feel as sexy as Tony’s telling him he is, and then he realizes that he hasn’t breathed in what seems like ages, and he panics, a bit, and comes up for air.

Tony looks at him through heavy-lidded eyes and Steve’s just intending to catch his breath and start again, but Tony catches his wrists instead. “Lie down.”

Steve does so and Tony crawls over him, hovering, not touching, and then he lowers his just head to kiss him.

"Tell me what you want," Tony says, breath soft on Steve's lips.

"I want you to ejaculate in my mouth," Steve says, blushing uncontrollably as he does, wondering what happened to his self control, wondering why he let himself blurt out such a private fantasy.

"Come," Tony says, seemingly unfazed by Steve's declaration. "You want me to come in your mouth."

"Mhmm."

"I will, baby, but it'll be awhile before we get to that.” Tony kisses him hungrily, body still suspended inches above Steve's, denying him any touch but for his lips. "You're so beautiful with my cock in your mouth."

Steve makes another one of those involuntary sounds, the ones he can't help making when something makes him feel dirty and good at the same time.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you," Tony whispers. "Do you want my mouth on your cock? Hmm? Or do you want me to do this?"

He lowers his hips, and any sort of self control that Steve's been deluding himself into thinking he has disappears.

"This," he gasps, his eyes closing in pleasure as Tony moves in just the right way. He feels so unbelievably close to him, and he’s glad he waited, and he’s glad he stopped waiting, because now that they’re actually doing this he can’t imagine what the point is of waiting.

Tony kisses him on the neck and on the chest and teases his nipples, and Steve runs his hands along Tony’s back and tries not to be overwhelmed by it all, tries to focus on Tony, on how perfect Tony feels against him, on how Tony feels against him, on how it feels, he can’t focus on anything but how good it feels.

Tony's feet hook under Steve's knees, strong legs wrapping around his, pulling their bodies closer together.

"Talk to me," he whispers. "Tell me what you're thinking."

That's not an invitation to say he loves him. Steve knows that. He knows that and so he bites his lip to keep it from spilling out.

“Does it feel good?”

“Y – yeah.” He’s surprised by how it’s hard to get the words out, how he feels the need to take harsh gasping breaths instead. “Ngnh... nnh, Tony – I –”

“Are you close?”

He doesn’t know but he assumes he is, he assumes based on before that he is so he nods, breathing heavily, half of him hoping Tony will stop so that he lasts, half of him hoping he’ll keep going anyway because it feels good, so good. 

“You wanna try something new?”

Steve nods because there’s really no other answer to that question. And everything is new, but it turns out that what Tony has in mind isn’t as new as he’s expecting. They just lie on their sides, heads on opposite sides, and Steve sucks him again, using his hands this time, trying again to let Tony into his throat and failing. He remembers to breathe, this time, but he hardly wants to, he just wants to make Tony feel good.

Finally Tony’s mouth is on him again, and it feels so good, even better than before. He wants Tony to finish first, but he knows that’s a losing battle, because Tony can do things with his mouth that Steve’s not even sure he can understand. 

When he comes it’s overwhelming and for a second there he’s afraid he might cry. He’s not sure why he feels that way, because everything is good, everything is feeling good, but there’s this brief unmanageable swell of emotion and then that passes, and he just feels good again. 

Tony comes not too long after, and Steve’s proud of himself for that, proud of the way that Tony’s fist tightens in his hair and and he groans, “oh, fuck, Steve, I’m gonna cum,” because he’d worried that he wouldn’t be good enough. 

He swallows, and It’s not as good as his dreams, because in his dream there’s no taste and he doesn’t choke a little bit and worry about not getting all of it, but he’s glad he does it anyway. In real life it feels just as intimate as he was hoping, just as special and private, makes him feel so close to Tony, like there was some barrier between them and now it’s completely gone.

He wants to hold Tony close and tell him how much he loves him. He thinks it’s time. But another part of him is terrified that if he does that before Tony’s ready, he’ll scare him away. 

“How was that?”

“I –” Steve pauses, tries to find the words. “I didn’t know it would be so so... good.”

And Tony smiles. “Just you wait, I’m really gonna blow your mind,” he says, snuggling up against him, and Steve smiles and kisses his hair and decides that his feelings can wait too.


	8. Chapter 8

They have sex twice on Sunday and then again Tuesday, and again Wednesday, and by Thursday he’s afraid that if they keep doing it all the time it’ll stop being special, but he still drags Tony out of his lab in the early afternoon so that he can ‘practice’ giving him a blowjob. 

And by drags, what he means is he shows up and raises his eyebrows and Tony divests himself of his clothing, so he imagines it’s not too much of an interruption. 

It makes him feel a little bit immoral, and very guilty, and every time he promises himself that he’ll at least wait longer before doing it again. But when he’s with Tony he forgets all of the objections. 

He reminds himself that it’s wrong, not just that he’s having sex but that he’s doing it with Tony, that they’re both men and that’s not what sex was intended for. And that thought makes him hate himself even more, but it’s still not enough to make him want to stop.

At least if he’s going to hell for this Tony’ll be there too. In fact, he hopes he is going to hell for this, because that’s the only way they’ll wind up together in the afterlife.

The sex itself is exhilarating and a little bit terrifying at the same time. He loves the way it feels, of course, the physical and emotional sensations that are stronger and better than he’d imagined could exist. But he loves the way it makes him feel when he’s not doing it more, the way that he doesn’t have to worry about holding Tony too close, or about an innocent touch turning into something he’s not willing to do, so they can touch, innocently, as much as they want to. 

He loves the innocent touching, the little moments where his hands just happen to fall on Tony’s hips, or their shoulders brush together then stay that way, like they’re just a part of each other now. And he loves the way that it turns into something not so innocent, he’s just not the one to push it in that direction. That’s a level of culpability, of acknowledgement of what they’re doing, that he’s not ready for.

On that first Sunday he comes in Tony’s mouth without saying anything, and sure, it’s only the second time Tony’s ever given him a blowjob, but still it’s his fault, it’s entirely his fault because he knows it’s about to happen and the words won’t form anyway. 

Tony takes it in stride but he brings it up when they’re cuddling, when he’s almost asleep, runs a hand through Steve’s hair and says, “I wasn’t kidding about warning me.”

Steve nods.

“Can you... not tell?”

Steve blushes. “I can tell,” he says, closing his eyes. “I’ll say something next time.”

Tony curls up against him, laying an arm across his chest, sleepily pressing his face against Steve’s neck. And Steve thinks that’s the end of it, but it’s not.

“You’re not comfortable with sex, are you?”

“I like it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Steve shrugs. It doesn’t matter.

Tony sits up and yawns, looks him up and down and runs a hand along his back. “I want you to masturbate for me.”

Steve swallows, feeling the sudden need for a blanket, or a pillow, or anything to cover him. “Pardon?”

“I want you to get yourself off while I watch.”

He exhales like the air has been punched out of him, and he’d be lying to say that the thought doesn’t arouse him, but it scares him too. And he thinks about it, curls up a bit so he’s not on display in case his body decides to betray the undercurrent of want that’s running through him. “I’d rather not.”

Tony smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

And Steve squirms. “I’ll do it.”

“Why?”

“Because you want me to.”

“Oops, nice try, wrong answer.”

“Then why’d you ask me?”

Tony smirks. “Because I want you to.”

Steve sighs. “Quit playing games.”

“I want you to want to.”

“Well, I don’t,” he says, grasping the sheet in his fist and wondering why he says that so forcefully when it’s not even completely true.

Tony puts his hand on Steve’s hip. “What if I give you a handjob?”

Steve swallows. “Okay.”

“So why’s it okay if I do it?”

“It’s not.”

“No.” Tony sits up again, bouncing on the bed a bit, and slaps Steve playfully on the butt. “No, wrong answer. Come on, I’m trying to make a point here and you’re completely not helping.”

Steve stretches for the blanket and tugs it across himself. “Then make it.”

Tony frowns. “What’s wrong? Is it that I just said I’d give you a handjob and I haven’t yet? Because I’ll get to it.”

“Everything’s fine,” Steve says, pulling the blanket a little tighter around himself. “I’m just tired.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Right.”

“Get to the point.”

“I made it already.”

“Oh.” He pulls Tony against him, holds him tightly so he can’t get back up. “Great point.”

Tony sighs against his shoulder. “Really, this is a conversation we need to have.”

“Not right now.”

“You know you’re perfect and sexy and don’t have anything to be ashamed about, right?”

Steve yawns. “Okay.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with having lots of great sex with me, all of the time?”

“I’m sleeping.”

Tony sighs again and wrestles the blanket over himself, sliding his knee between Steve’s. “We’re talking later.”

But they don’t. They have sex again when they wake up, and Steve makes extra effort to seem like he’s enjoying himself – which he is – and Tony seems satisfied.

So Steve decides that he just needs to practice.

*****

After Thursday afternoon’s encore performance Tony suggests that he blow off the rest of work so that they can go out to a proper dinner, and Steve has to decline because he has plans.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You have plans?”

Steve nods.

“Wait, no, let’s give this proper weight. You. Have plans. With other people?”

Steve shrugs. “I’m going out to dinner.”

“With whom?”

“Theresa. She’s a nurse.”

“Oh.” Tony raises an eyebrow. “Like, a motherly, doting kind of nurse?”

“I don’t know. She’s friendly.”

“But she’s unattractive.”

“No.”

“Older than you?”

Steve’s not sure. “Maybe?”

“So,” Tony says, on the exhale. “Like a date?”

“No.”

“It’s okay, it can be a date.”

“It’s not.” He’s not even sure why he’s going. But he’s never had a female friend before, and if the 30s and 40s taught him that men were for friendship and women were for relationships, well, maybe the 21st century can be the opposite. 

“We’re not exclusive.”

Steve sighs. “It’s not a date.”

“Okay.”

He wants to change his answer to that statement as soon as he realizes what Tony means by not exclusive. But the phone rings, and when it’s over Tony looks over at him and rolls his eyes. “Important meeting, Pepper’s pissed. I gotta go.”

“We’re not exclusive?”

Tony doesn’t hear that or he doesn’t acknowledge it. “I’m going to LA this weekend. Wanna come with?”

He does. “No thank you.”

Tony shrugs. “Have fun on your date.”

“It’s not a date.”

******  
It’s not a date. He asks right away, and she seems shocked, get flustered enough that he wishes he’d gone with his gut and not even gone. He doesn’t need other people, he has Tony and Peggy. Even if they’re “not exclusive.”

“Not that I wouldn’t date you,” she adds, after another furtive glance at his chest. “But I, um, I have a boyfriend.”

“Me too.” And then he regrets being so candid. That’s not something he should be admitting.

Theresa smiles. “Oh. And she thought it was a date?”

Steve nods, so very glad that it’s her assumption. “Yes.”

“Have you seen I Love You, Man?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Oh, right,” she says, blushing. “I don’t know why I asked. I just keep forgetting that you’re from the past.”

Steve offers a thin smile.

“Well, anyway, it’s about this guy who’s trying to make a new friend, and everyone’s always telling him only to go out to lunch with the guys, never dinner, because dinner means it’s a date. And then he goes out to dinner with a guy his mom thinks he should be friends with, and it turns out the other guy thinks it’s a date.”

Steve smiles broader, wonders if it’s too much information, but -- “I’ve done that.”

Theresa raises an eyebrow. “Done what?”

“Went to dinner with a guy thinking we were there as friends.”

“Oh.” Her eyes get bigger, as does her smile. “Oh, wow. What happened?”

“Figured out it was a date. We’re still friends.”

“How’d you figure out it was a date?”

Steve shrugs. This is too far. This is way too far. He kind of wants to tell her. “When he kissed me.”

She laughs, almost spilling her water, and then she covers her mouth and tries to stop laughing. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing at you,” she says, continuing to laugh at him nonetheless. “I oh, that’s great, sorry, just a second.”

He can’t help smiling, even though there’s a part of his brain that has to keep reminding him that it’s only funny because he’s lying.

“So, well, now I understand why you’d want to check,” she says, catching her breath. “Or, why your girlfriend might want to check.”

Steve shrugs.

“Did it bother you? When he kissed you?”

“No.”

“Oh. That’s really cool! I mean, because you’re from the 1940s, right? But you’re cool with gay people?”

Steve shrugs. There’s a part of him that wants to end this line of questioning before he gives anything away. And there’s another part of him that really likes that he can talk about it. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it.”

Theresa smiles. “That’s really great. I mean, because everyone thought it was a mental disorder back then, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve’s not as interested in that conversation.

“What’s the biggest change?”

“Pardon?”

“From then to now.”

The rest of the night goes that way, she spends it quizzing him about his past, but she doesn’t ask about him being Captain America and so he doesn’t mind it so much. She asks about the boring stuff, the everyday stuff. And when he points out how mundane everything she’s asking about is, she smiles, and apologizes, explains that she “minored in history,” whatever that means. 

It’s actually a fun dinner. He gets to talk about things he thought no one would want to hear about, things that Peggy already knows and that would bore Tony to death. He’s glad he went.

He calls Tony when he gets home, but there’s no answer. It’s late though. He shouldn’t expect one.

Still, he can’t help imagining Tony out on a date with someone else. And, he knows how Tony’s dates end.

They don’t even talk until Saturday, and it’s a short conversation.

“I miss you,” he says, once they’ve run out of mundane things to talk about. He does. At very least they usually talk most nights. 

Tony just makes a small noise of agreement. “Should’ve come with me.”

Steve sighs. “Next time.”

“Mhmm.”

And then Tony has to go.

****

Sunday he's at the nursing home, spending the day with Peggy. Theresa’s there in the afternoon and the three of them play bridge, out in the common room, where Steve hasn’t spent very much time. The flurry of activity is nice, and having more than one friend there is nice too. 

He even opts to stay for dinner, although the sandwich he has with him hardly makes for a dinner. But it’s the being with people that he’s trying to make himself do again.

The television in the dining room is showing the Academy Awards red carpet, and Steve watches it idly throughout the meal, feeling completely out of touch. He doesn't recognize anyone, and they really don’t even look like movie stars. It’s a stark reminder that he’s not from this era. And then there’s a familiar face. 

He blinks, rubs his eyes, but there's Tony, still looking unbelievably perfect in a tuxedo, Pepper Potts hanging off his arm.

“And I’ve been been invited here to present an award, of course you’re going to have the man who singlehandedly saved New York City present an award, do you get what I’m saying?” 

Pepper smiles demurely and puts a hand over Tony’s. “I think what Tony is saying is that this is a big honor, and he hasn’t quite figured out how to graciously accept it.”

“That is not what I’m saying,” Tony says, wandering off nonetheless, his hand on the small of Pepper’s back. She’s wearing a dress that’s all crossed in the back so that he’s touching her bare skin, and he leans in at something she says, and laughs, and they look so very much in love. Then the camera cuts away.

Steve thinks he’s going to be sick. 

"Excuse me, ma'am," he says, as one of the nurses comes by. He doesn’t know her name, he doesn’t know any of their names. "What we're watching, it's happening right now?"

She glances at the television. "Well, it’s live..."

Peggy looks up from her food. "You could have asked me that."

Steve smiles, pretending he’s okay. He's gotten good at that. "Thank you."

He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. No wonder Tony said they’re not exclusive. He wonders if he’s Tony’s dirty little secret, or if Pepper knows, if they laugh about it when he’s not around. 

He knows that he’s overreacting. Clearly Tony doesn’t think his relationship with Pepper is a secret. But then, he wouldn’t expect Steve to watch the Oscars. 

He spends the rest of the meal in a little bit of a downward spiral, glad he hasn’t told Tony anything he would regret, glad Tony doesn’t know how he’s broken. His virginity, that’s all that Tony has that Steve really wishes he could take back, but even that he didn’t give up on purpose so it’s not the same, really. It’s not like he thought Tony would love and cherish him and then made an adult decision to sleep with him, he’d just done it. Because it felt right at the time.

Because he’d ignored every opportunity he’d ever had saving himself so long for someone who he never even got a chance to be with. And after that it hadn’t seemed worth saving anymore.

But that still didn’t make it a good decision.

He’s glad to get out of that room, to get away from the people. And he’s about to head home alone and think about what he’s done when he gets a different idea. "Mind I stay to watch the Oscars?"

Peggy wrinkles her nose at him. "Have you even seen a movie this year?"

"Tony's there." He rubs the back of his neck self consciously. "I want to see if they’ll show him."

He wants to see if they’ll show him with Pepper. He knows it’s a public event, and that he’s not going to see enough to satisfy his curiosity, but he still wants to know. He wants to know that he’s not overreacting. Because he could be. There’s a good chance that he is, because in the last couple days Tony has been distant and hasn’t initiated contact once, and plus they’re not exclusive. Steve could just be seeing all of that and erroneously thinking that means Tony’s dating Pepper.

He doesn’t tell Peggy this, though. It’s bad enough that she even knows about Tony. She doesn’t need to know that Steve’s been wasting all of his time thinking about Tony, and now he’s going to waste all of his time worrying about what he thought he had with Tony.

She smiles, and lets him stay, lets him lay on the bed and strokes his hair as he watches the mind-numbingly dull ceremony. He doesn’t see Pepper once. He sees Tony present some award, and he tries to remind himself not to love him but it’s hard. 

Peggy tells Steve she loves him, when he leaves. She always does. It’s just how they say goodbye, a perfunctory but also genuinely caring statement, as though she were his grandmother. It makes him feel like he matters to someone, makes him feel good, on the days that he feels good. 

On the days that he doesn’t, when he’s at his lowest, his most damaged, that’s when he hears it, and he says it, and all he can think is that at least if she dies before he returns he’ll never have to regret his last words to her.

Today’s not his lowest day in the normal sense. It’s not like that. It’s worse, in some ways. He hears her words and he imagines them stronger, higher pitched, the way she used to sound. He imagines a life where they’d gotten to be together when she was young and still wanted him.

A life where it’s him and Peggy, and Bucky’s still there, and everything is great. A life where he didn’t have to sacrifice all of his happiness for a little town in New York.

He wishes he’d never created the Howling Commandos, never ruined his life, and ended Bucky’s, for a country that didn’t need soldiers, not when they were willing to drop a fucking atomic bomb on innocent civilians. He wishes he hadn’t fought for this future because he doesn’t exactly approve of it.

He’d thought Tony was worth it all but even at his absolute best Tony’s not even close.

And he knows he’d do it all over again, do it for Brooklyn if not for America, and the future, even if he knew how that’d turn out. But god damn it, he wishes he didn't have to.


	9. Chapter 9

On Monday, he misses two calls from Tony and then gets a text in the evening that says, “I’ve been home for three whole hours and you’re still not naked in my bed. Something wrong?”

He hasn’t dealt with anything head on in so long. Since New York, really. And he remembers how good that felt, but it’s still hard to motivate himself to take charge anymore. Something’s broken in him now. He wakes up every morning feeling guilty and hopeless.

But not today. Today he’s angry too. And it’s not even justified anger but he wants to nurse it anyway because it’s the closest he’s felt to being himself in quite a while. Today he’s going to go over there and demand an explanation, an actual, honest explanation, because he deserves that much at least. Just because he never thought to ask if Tony was seeing someone else doesn’t mean he didn’t have a right to know. 

But first he has the stupid graphic design class that he’s stupidly going to attend, even though he’s going to make a fool of himself. But, that’s fine. He’s good under pressure, after all. And he’s punched Hitler over 200 times. If the computer doesn’t do what he wants, he’ll just punch it and pretend it broke. That’s a good strategy. He’s good at strategies.

He doesn’t answer the text.

He does show up twenty minutes early, in the hopes that he’ll be able to explain his ineptitude to the instructor, and finds himself walking in on a previous class. So he waits in the hallway, sketching broken things.

He keeps coming back to the question of why Tony didn’t tell him he was going to the Academy Awards. Because he can explain away the rest of it, if he tries, but that’s the part that doesn’t make sense. Or rather, it makes a lot of sense. He’d never expect Steve to be watching. 

That’s what he keeps coming back to. That’s what convinces him Tony has to be hiding something.

He’s glad for the distraction when the class starts. There’s nothing to be gained by focusing on suspicions, and he knows that, and he can’t seem to stop it anyway.

He walks up to the instructor, introduces himself with a handshake and explains how little he knows, how he still hasn’t mastered a single programming language. And the instructor looks at him, confused, and then blinks.

“We’re not coding in this class,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”

“Then --” Steve stops, realizing that it’s probably not a good idea to end that sentence with ‘how am I supposed to do anything.’ He’s sure he can figure it out, and if not they’ll just have to show him. “Thank you.”

He can feel everyone’s eyes on him as he slowly takes a seat. This is why he wanted to come in early.

He doesn’t want to draw more attention to himself, but that doesn’t excuse good manners. So he turns to the guy next to him, a kid with dark hair, skinny like Steve used to be, and introduces himself. 

“Um, Daniel,” the kid says, not meeting Steve’s gaze, hesitantly shaking his hand. “Uh, nice to meet you.”

He swallows, feeling completely out of place, and turns to the computer instead, determined to figure out how to use it if it kills him.

It doesn’t. It’s actually very simple. Tony’s clearly been lying to him about how to use a computer. Of course, he’s clearly been lying to him about other things too.

Even the program they’re using is amazingly easy to figure out after weeks and weeks of trying to navigate Tony’s system. He just clicks on things, and they work. There are even words that pop up when he lets the mouse sit on one of the pictures along the side, so he doesn’t have to remember what they’re called.

There’s not much instruction, however; they’re just introduced to a few of the functions and then told to “explore,” his notebook laying next to him with three lonely lines of notes on it.

So he plays around, sees what everything can do. It’s so easy to fill things with color, but there’s no shading. He assumes they’ll teach him how to do that. He adds elements, at random, and then starts over when he doesn’t like what they do, because you can’t exactly erase some of these things.

He does that four times before Daniel tentatively interrupts. “You can, uh, undo things, you know,” he says, raising one hand to point at the screen.

“Oh,” Steve says, and then, because he feels the need to cover up his lack of knowledge. “Thank you. I’ve never used this program before.”

“Oh, uh, well, you’re pretty good at it, then.”

Steve gives him a small smile and a thank you, but he’s sure Daniel’s just being polite. Particularly when he can still feel the eyes on him. He even catches a few people staring at him throughout the class, like they’re wondering why he’s there.

He leaves as soon as he can, planning not to come back, and a girl stops him on his way out.

“Hey, uh, some of us are going out for drinks,” she says, tucking a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “Do you want to come?”

He thinks about it for a split second, and then a second longer. It’d be so easy, to just go out for drinks with people his own age. Forget about Tony for a second. But he’s afraid that if he forgets about Tony for even a second, Tony will forget about him forever.

So he declines, politely, entreats her to invite him next time and apologizes for having other plans. And then he calls Tony to let him know he’ll be over, keeping his tone neutral and his words short.

He arrives at the tower an hour later, after agreeing to give Tony time to shower and “freshen up” and then meet him in the spacious, neglected office adjacent to his bedroom. He’s ready to get this over with.

He walks in, finds Tony sitting in his ridiculously large office chair. And he takes a seat across from him, his own chair thin and without armrests.

“O-kay,” Tony says, raising an eyebrow. “So, you’re mad at me. But I’m fine with that if you are, I’m a big fan of angry sex.”

“Is everything about sex to you?”

“Of course not,” Tony says, mouth quirking into a little self-satisfied smile. “Some things are jokes.”

Steve ignores that. “I saw you,” he says. “On TV.”

“Oh.” Tony grimaces. “Well, look, I didn’t really mean anything I said. It’s a – well, it’s kind of a persona.”

“I don’t care.”

“But it is. It is strongly to my advantage to have people underestimate me.”

“Tony –”

“I mean, if you were the only publically recognized superhero, don’t you think it would be a good idea for your enemies to think you’re a little bit of a self-centered idiot?” 

“Tony,” Steve says, a little louder, more forcefully, and Tony finally shuts up. “I don’t care what you said. I think you were unnecessarily dismissive of everything that Thor, and Bruce, and Clint and Natasha did, but you’re still the one who went on a suicide mission to protect New York from an atomic bomb so I really don’t care if you want to act like it was all you.”

Tony blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

Then he cocks his head. “So then what’s the problem?”

“What’s your relationship with Pepper?”

Tony smiles. “Why, ya jealous?”

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Tony shrugs. “We’re exes, technically, I guess.”

“Technically?”

“Well, I mean, we’re definitely exes. But not the type where you have to be worried that something’ll happen. I’m really not interested in women the same way.”

“The same way?”

“You know, romance, whatever. Sexually, sure, but I’m actually much better at being monogamous than anyone has ever given me credit for.”

Steve looks at him, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, but everything he’s saying is ridiculous.

“And I mean, I’m not trying to say I didn’t like dating her, because at least we’re friends now, but I also kinda feel bad about it, and I’d never do that again.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “Why would you feel bad about it?”

Tony sighs. “I uh, knew I was leading her on, but I just kept hoping it’d work out anyway. But, that’s a conversation for another time, okay? In answer to your first question, there’s nothing between us.”

Steve exhales. “That’s a good cover story.”

“Better as the truth, though,” Tony says, narrowing his eyes. “Which it is. What’s with the sudden paranoia?”

“Don’t act like I’m not justified in being suspicious.”

“Oh, the suspicion doesn’t bother me.” He raises an eyebrow. “Assuming that I’m lying, however, kinda does.”

Steve shrugs. He wants to believe him, he really does, but if Tony’s lying to his face it’s better to get out right now. “You didn’t tell me you’d be going to the Academy Awards.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Steve glares. “I shouldn’t need to ask about something like that, especially if you’re bringing someone else as your date. I don’t care if we’re not exclusive, that’s just common decency.” 

Tony shrugs. “Look, I figured you’d think it was stupid. I’d have told you, if you’d decided to come with me.”

“Now, that’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

Tony gives a little push on his desk, slides the chair over to Steve’s side, so he can take his hand and smile condescendingly. “Look, I’ve enjoyed all of your little hissy fits, really, I have, you’re adorable when you’re mad. But at this point maybe you could, I don’t know, just trust me a little instead of getting upset with me.”

Steve sets his jaw and pulls his hand back. “You still should have told me about Pepper.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Should I just tell you about everyone I’m not dating or sleeping with? Is that what you want?”

“If that’s the shorter list, yeah.”

Tony laughs, a sharp, amused laugh. “Well, how many people are there in the world?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then let’s just say I’m not dating whatever that number is, minus two people.”

Steve exhales. “Who’s the other person?”

“Me. I can’t date myself.”

“So then why’d you insist that we’re not exclusive?”

“We’re not.”

“I want to be.”

“Really?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Gee, I dunno, you’re always getting mad and you won’t have sex with me.” Tony shrugs. “Thought maybe you were losing interest.”

“I – but, we do have sex,” he says, and as he finishes that sentence he has the sinking realization that Tony doesn’t understand what that means to him.

“Okay, well, I mean, I guess that’s sex, and that’s great and all,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “But I really just want you to rip my clothes off, hold me against the wall, and fuck me.” 

Steve tries not to let the shock register on his face.

Tony smirks. “We can work up to that. But I’d really like it if you took more initiative.”

Steve swallows, feels like he should just take Tony’s word for it, but decides not to. “I thought I was supposed to be the girl.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re transsexual now?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Where’d you get that idea?”

“I thought you’d want to penetrate me.”

“Yeah, no, I got that. And, for the record, I do. But where’d you get the idea that one of us has to be ‘the girl’?”

Steve shrugs defensively. “I don’t know. That’s how relationships are.”

Tony snorts. “Maybe straight relationships. Sometimes.”

“Well, I don’t know how relationships are supposed to go, okay? I’ve never been in one.”

Tony shrugs. “You’re just supposed to do what you want to. And, you know, tell me what you want.”

“Okay.”

Tony smiles. “So is that what’s been up with you?”

Steve shrugs. Nothing’s been up with him.

“Well, anyway we’re both men, and I personally think that’s great. There’s no reason to fall into stereotypical roles. I mean, if you really want to –”

“I don’t.”

“Great. So, uh,” Tony says, pausing, drumming his fingers on the table, a little smile playing at his lips. “Have you given any thought to fucking me?”

Steve blushes, because his brain’s not the only part of his body that jumped at the idea. And he sighs, because Tony’s not going to like his answer. “I don’t want to.”

Tony’s face falls. “Bullshit.”

Steve offers a small apologetic smile. ”Okay, I do want to. But I’m not going to.”

Tony stares at the wall, a strange expression on his face, and then he sighs heavily. “I really didn’t want to do this,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “But, are you completely sure that you’re attracted to me?”

Steve laughs. Tony doesn’t.

“I’m serious.”

“Of course I’m attracted to you.”

“Well, maybe you’re not.”

“I think I would know.”

“It’s fine if you’re not into guys. I get it. Lots of people experiment. We can still be friends.”

“You think I’m not... a queer, just because I don’t want to-”

“It’s not ‘a queer,’” Tony says. “We say gay now. Or bi, if you’re into women too.”

“You think I’m not... a... bi?”

Tony smirks. “Just bi. Short for bisexual.”

Steve sighs. Just like Tony to distract him with something that’s completely irrelevant. “Well, I am attracted to you.”

Tony squints at him. “Sexually?”

“Yes.”

“But are you absolutely, 100% sure? Because you’ve been making me feel a lot more resistible than I’m used to.”

“I have self-control.”

“Then stop having that.”

He says it lightly but Steve can tell he’s still a little doubtful. So he does the only thing he can think of to prove it, which is to take Tony’s hand and place it on his lap.

Tony fixes him with a surprised look and Steve’s ears get warm. “Just from...”

“Thinking about... you know.”

Tony smirks. “Fucking me.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek and nods.

“Well, this really only proves that you get erections too easily,” Tony says, still smirking. “And you really don’t want to fuck me?”

Steve nods, trying not to lean into Tony’s hand as it kneads against his khakis. 

“Why not?”

“It’s too soon.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “You were gonna let me fuck you on the first date.”

Steve blushes furiously, pushes Tony’s hand away because there’s something about the casual way Tony says it that’s making his dick throb. “I wasn’t.”

Tony smirks. “Yeah you were. And you wanted to. Admit it.”

“I’m not a –” he trails off, still blushing, wondering how he can finish that sentence without insulting him.

“Person?”

Steve shrugs. “I just wanna do things right.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Well, you’ve got me, and you’ve got an erection. That’s pretty much how you do it.”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Right. Because this doesn’t concern me at all.”

“It’s still my decision.”

Tony rolls his eyes again, and then he stands up, making full use of the two steps it takes him to cross the space between them, making Steve doubt his resolve with every movement. “Well,” he says, as he helps himself to Steve’s lap. “I didn’t invite you over here to talk about what you _won’t_ do.”

He wraps his arms loosely around Steve’s neck, scoots forward so his crotch is pressed right against Steve’s, and Steve exhales a little too involuntarily.

“It’s all up to you tonight,” Tony says, rocking slowly against him. “I’m not gonna do a single thing you don’t tell me to.”

Steve swallows, aching with need and trying so hard to forestall it. “What if I do something you don’t like?”

Tony rolls his eyes and rests his forehead on Steve’s. “Nice try, cupcake.”

“Oh, and don’t worry about holding back,” he adds. “I don’t mind being roughed up a bit.”

On childish principle he wants to turn him down, make Tony work for his affection because heso obviously takes it for granted, but there’s this strong, deep-seated need that won’t let him do that. This harsh, insistent need that won’t let him do anything but hold Tony against him and arch his back searching for more contact.

And he runs his hands through Tony’s hair and kisses him, sucking hard against... unresponsive lips.

Tony grins. “I said I wasn’t going to do anything you didn’t tell me to.”

Steve glares. “Kiss me.”

He slides his hands under Tony’s shirt, running them along his back before dropping them down to pull Tony’s hips against him. There’s not enough leverage, on the chair, he can’t get enough of him. 

He stands up, but instead of dropping his feet to the floor Tony wraps them around Steve’s waist. So he does the only reasonable thing, he backs Tony against the wall and holds him there, kissing him harsh and aggressive, rubbing against him in short little thrusts, and Tony moans into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he pants, pulling away and tightening a hand in Steve’s hair. “Can we please reconsider your objections?”

“Did I say you could stop kissing me?”

And Tony grins. “God, I should have done this ages ago.”

He carries Tony into the bedroom, drops him on the pillows, and strips as Tony watches, not trying to play it for sexual appeal the way that Tony would because he doesn’t know how to do that. He’s just taking his clothes off so they won’t stand between them. 

“Have you ever heard of a position called the Triple Lindy? I bet we could totally pull that off.”

Steve rolls his eyes and crawls next to him, kissing Tony’s neck as he pushes his shirt up, trying to focus on Tony because he’s not going to last much longer.

Then he gets another idea, realizes that it doesn’t matter because he’ll just get hard again in a matter of minutes.

So he pulls Tony’s shirt over his head and then he straddles him. Tony’s hands slide up his legs, come to rest on his hips and Tony looks up at him with a little smirk, like he’s daring him to protest.

Steve licks his lip and slides a hand through Tony’s hair. He knows the words to say, he’s just not sure if he’ll be able to say that when he so firmly registers it as an insult.

But he tries anyway. “Suck.”

Tony smirks, running his hands along Steve’s thighs. “Suck what?”

“You know.”

Tony smiles. “I want you say it.”

“Or,” he adds, looking up at Steve through his eyelashes, a coy little smile on his lips, “I suppose you could make me.”

He follows the words with a little pressure on Steve’s hips, nudging him forward, and Steve swallows.

Tony purses his lips, seductive but also clearly amused. “C’mon baby, what’s it gonna be?”

Steve hesitates.

“For clarification, I’m inviting you to fuck my mouth, if you want to.”

Steve nods.

“I want you to, if that helps your decision.”

Steve nods.

Tony smiles. “I’ll start you off, then,” he says, and takes Steve into his mouth. And his hands press on Steve’s hips, pulling him forward, and then press him back and Steve gets the picture but he still can’t wrap his head around the idea of actually doing this.

It doesn’t take long, however, for instinct to kick in. He finds his hips moving even without Tony’s intervention. And he looks down, expects to feel bad about it but Tony’s looking up at him like Steve is everything he’s ever wanted, and it’s enough to push him over the edge.

Steve rolls off of him, breathing heavily, and watches as Tony licks the last bit of semen from his lip. “A little timid, but it is your first time, so all things considered that was pretty great.” 

Steve swallows, caught in the post-orgasm haze of wrongness. “You actually like that? But isn’t it...”

“Degrading? No.”

“Really?”

“Do you think less of me now?”

“No.”

“Great. Don’t feel degraded at all. Now, one of us still has an erection and I’ll give you three guesses as to whose job it is to fix that.”

Steve smiles, knowing that if he just ignores it the feeling that he shouldn’t be doing this will go away. It always does.

So he pulls Tony’s pants off, lowering his face to his thighs, sucking on the sensitive skin there to make him squirm.

“Steve -”

He smiles, spreads Tony’s legs so he can have better access, dragging his teeth across his inner thigh. Tony hates it, when he teases him like this, so he makes sure to do it every time.

“Um, while you’re down there,” Tony says, clearing his throat a little. “Wanna try something new? Ever heard of rimming?”

He hasn’t, but Tony explains it, insistently, explains that it’s completely safe and fun, and then pleads with him until Steve gives in. “I mean, it’s basically just oral,” Tony says. “Tons of people do it.”

And Steve’s hesitant, for a number of reasons, but once he buries his face between Tony’s legs and slides his tongue across Tony’s soft, pink hole, feels Tony moan and squirm underneath him, he finds himself suddenly okay with it. It’s intoxicating, intimate and taboo and terribly arousing, and most importantly Tony loves it, keeps writhing and moaning and trying to force Steve’s tongue deeper.

And then Tony asks for Steve’s fingers and he has to draw the line there, has to finish Tony with a normal, safe blowjob and himself with his hand so that he won’t be tempted to give in to something more.

As soon as they’re done Tony straddles him, knees on either side of his stomach, and runs his hands along Steve’s chest. “So why no penetration?”

“We’re already moving too fast.”

Tony rolls his eyes.

“I really care about you. I don’t wanna mess this up.”

Tony yawns. “If you really cared about me you’d put your penis in me.”

“Well, now that you describe it that way.”

Tony smirks. “I’m serious, popsicle. I like sex. I like you. I like to have sex with you. Don’t give me that chivalry crap.”

****

He has one of his dreams again. He knew they weren’t gone, couldn’t be, but he’s been doing such a good job of making his life be about dating Tony now that he almost thought he’d been able to trick his subconscious into believing the past isn’t still haunting him. 

He wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, and he sits bolt upright, not sure where he is. And Tony’s supposed to be in the bed next to him, but he’s not. He’s glad for that, a little bit, because it means Tony doesn't have to know.

After a half hour, when Tony hasn’t come back, he starts to worry. Sleep’s out of the question anyway. At least when he’s awake he has some control over his thoughts. 

So he gets out of bed, but even with the lights on he can’t find any of his clothes. He goes into the bathroom, makes sure Tony isn’t in there, and then he tries to open the closet, because other people live here and he’s not looking for Tony without some sort of clothes.

“Password?”

He jumps at Jarvis’s voice, and then he sighs. “I need clothes.”

“I’m not authorized to provide entrance without a password.”

He sighs again. “Where’s Tony?”

****

He finds Tony in his lab, bent over a workbench, wrapped in a shirt that’s too big for him and awfully familiar. And even as Steve’s stuck clutching a sheet around his torso, he can’t help feeling a swell of some odd mixture of pride and ownership to see Tony wearing his shirt. 

“You got my pants, too?”

Tony jumps, turning around with his fists raised. And he drops them when he sees Steve, gives him a crooked smile. “They’re in the wash. Didn’t think you’d be up. Also didn’t think Jarvis would let you in without telling me. Need a little help tying your toga?”

“Pretty late to be working.”

Tony shrugs. “Got an idea. Figured if I went back to sleep it’d disappear.”

Steve nods, asks him what he’s working on, and Tony gives him some vague answer and he wonders if he’s not allowed to be down there. But Tony doesn’t ask him to leave, and he points him to the couch and gives him a pad of paper and a drafting pencil. Steve feels quite a bit like he’s a small child interrupting important work, but at the same time he’s glad he doesn’t have to go back to the huge empty room and try to sleep.

It’s not too long before Tony comes to look over his shoulder. And Steve’s glad that he’s just sketching one of the armors, because there were a lot of other subjects playing in his mind.

Tony puts his chin on Steve’s shoulder, squints at the paper, and says “do you ever draw me without the armor?”

Steve smiles. “I’m not drawing you.”

“Yeah you are. I’m the armor. The armor is me. You can’t prove I’m not in there.”

Steve leans his head against Tony’s. “Okay, I’m drawing you.”

“You should draw me without the armor.”

“Okay.”

“You should draw me naked.”

“Nude.”

“Can you do it by memory? Or should I pose for you?”

Steve blushes. 

“I’ll pose for you.”

Steve forgets to object as Tony’s clothes come off. He imagines in real life this would feel taboo, but there’s something decidedly dreamlike about being in Tony’s lab in the middle of the night. Not to mention, he absolutely wants to draw Tony nude, wants an excuse to linger over every curve of his body.

Tony poses, next to and partially behind the armor that Steve’s drawing. “How’s this?”

“Perfect.”

Tony grins. “I’ve modeled before,” he says, flexing. “But you could probably tell.”

Steve rolls his eyes and surveys him. He’s posed somewhat conservatively, on a variation of how a normal life model might stand, but everything about him is sexual, somehow. Steve’s not sure how that’ll come through on paper. If he’ll look as pornographic on the page as he does standing casually in his lab, holding a wrench and staring into the distance.

Tony seems to notice his train of thought. “Should I be erect? 

Steve blushes. “No.”

Neither of them should be erect, except Steve is going to be, already part of the way there just from the way that Tony’s looking at him.

“Fine,” Tony says, smirking. “I guess you’re the expert.”

Steve shushes him, looking down at his drawing to see if he needs to erase any of it. He likes the idea of having both of them in the picture, if only so he can insist that they’re separate entities, to some extent.

He realizes a few minutes in that Tony’s not going to be able to stand there long enough for him to include the kind of detail he wants to. So he stops focusing on perfection and just does a rough sketch, memorizing the details so he can add them in later.

He’s right. Tony makes it a full fifteen minutes before declaring the whole thing boring. “Can you talk while you draw? I can talk, right?”

Steve nods. “I’ll try to be fast.”

“Great. Awesome. Wonderful. So, since we’re exclusive, I assume we have to tell everyone, now, right?”

Steve looks up sharply. “No.”

“Damn it. A nude drawing would have made a great coming out card.”

Steve frowns. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Oh, come on, I didn’t really mean it. But we should tell people we know.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Well," Tony says, clearly trying to look like he feels guilty. "I kinda told Pepper about you. As in specifically your name. And then confirmation that you were in fact that Steve Rogers. And then, you know, a lot of other things."

"That's okay." He can't hold that against Tony, not when he's been telling Peggy too much for so much longer. "I told Peggy."

He's prepared for the lack of comprehension that crosses Tony's face. He knows he shouldn't have waited this long, but, well, his feelings and relationship with Peggy are so complicated and fragile that he doesn't want to bring it up at all. Except if they're going steady now, Tony deserves to know.

"And Peggy is?"

This feels like the wrong thing to talk about while Tony’s naked, while Steve has a decidedly secret erection, like he’d be sullying that relationship with this one. Dragging it through the same immorality.

Tony clears his throat. “Who’s Peggy?”

He looks down, shades along the side of Tony’s hip. "I knew her from before.” He's afraid to tell him. He's afraid to admit that maybe he has something on the side, after all. He's not sure how that works, how loving more than one person is supposed to go. "During the war. I – well, I was in love with her. She's the only really important person from my life back then who's still alive now."

“Oh,” Tony says, seeming to relax a bit. “Right. Peggy Carter?”

“Yeah. Do you know her?”

Tony shrugs, and then catches himself. “Sorry, I’ll stop moving.. I’ve met her a couple of times. Only person I respected as a teenager, actually. I don’t think I’ve seen her in maybe twenty years. How is she?”

Steve swallows. “I still love her.”

Tony nods.

There’s this long pause that’s suddenly not as companionable as the previous silence was. And Steve looks at his sketch, cleans it up a bit, and decides that it’s close enough to finished. “I’m done.”

“Already?”

Steve shrugs. “It’s a rough sketch.”

Tony walks over, takes a seat next to him, sitting so close that he’s almost on top of him, and props his head on Steve’s shoulder to look at it. “You’re very talented.”

Steve shrugs.

“Can I keep it?”

“I’m not done.”

Tony cocks his head. “You said you were.”

Steve smiles. “I still have to put the clothes on.”

The side of Tony’s mouth curls up into a smile, and he kisses him, once, chastely. Which is too bad, because Steve has an erection and nothing to do with it.

"What about Happy, and Bruce? And the other Avengers? Can we tell them?"

Steve sighs. "I'd really prefer if we just kept this between us. And Pepper and Peggy, I guess."

"But I can tell Rhodey."

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Ehh, a little too late for that.”

“How many people have you told?”

“Just the two, honest. And I mean, Rhodey’s my best friend, you can’t expect me to keep him in the dark about my life like that.”

Steve shrugs. He’d be fine with them keeping everyone in the dark about their life. He knows it shouldn’t matter, that it’s completely biased of him, but he really doesn’t like Rhodey knowing. He’s in the military, and Steve doesn’t care what their policies are like now, from everything he’s read it’s still not okay with people like him.

“Look, if it makes you feel any better, I told him I was interested in you months ago, so then I kinda had to tell him when you went out with me.”

“You didn’t have to tell him.”

Tony smirks. “Well, I didn’t know you’d want to be so secretive about it. Anyway, he thought you were too much of a fine, upstanding citizen to ever be attracted to me. So I had to prove him wrong.”

Tony doesn’t even seem to notice how awful that is. But Steve’s spent enough time thinking he was wrong, he’s not going to tolerate it anymore.

“And you’re fine being friends with someone who feels that way about queers?”

Tony laughs, a sort of shocked laugh that nevertheless is amused at Steve’s expense. “He wasn’t talking about your sexuality,” he says, patting Steve’s head in a condescending sort of way. “He’s not homophobic. He just meant that you’re too good for me.”

“Oh.” He sighs, pulling more of the sheet over himself. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

Tony smirks, drawing his legs underneath himself, and leans against Steve. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

Steve’s not sure how long they lie there, but it’s long enough to get rid of his erection, so he doesn’t have to keep holding his arm like a barrier. And he looks down at Tony, who’s playing with a bit of the sheet like he can’t stay still to save his life, but doesn’t want to get up. And it just seems like the right time.

“I love you,” he says. His voice seems too loud after all of the silence, somehow.

Tony looks up at him and a slow, broad smile breaks across his face. And he snuggles even closer, resting his head between Steve’s chin and his chest and running a hand along Steve’s stomach.

But he doesn’t say anything.


	10. Chapter 10

Steve wakes up to the sound of Tony's voice, the deep whisper that he puts on when he's talking dirty.

"Huh?" His voice is a little too loud, cracking with sleep, and he glances at the clock and wonders why Tony woke him up so early.

"Ugh, don't tell me I have to start over," Tony says, kissing Steve's neck, nipping playfully at his ear.

"I said I want you to _fuck me_ ," he says, drawing out the last two words so that they sound particularly obscene. He's curled up behind Steve, lips nearly touching his earlobe. "I want to feel your big, thick cock inside of me, stretching me open. Making me feel like I’m all yours.” 

Steve swallows.

Tony brushes Steve’s hair off of his forehead and kisses him on the temple. “We can do it slow, if you want,” he says. “But the way I always see it is you’re holding me tight and pounding me so hard I can’t even make out the words to tell you how much I love it.”

He’s shifting his hips just a bit as he talks, rubbing his cock against the small of Steve’s back, and Steve wants to touch himself but he doesn’t want to give Tony the satisfaction even more.

It’s been weeks since Tony first brought it up, weeks of pleading and teasing, weeks in which he keeps thinking he should go to confession for his impure thoughts before remembering that he’d given up on confessing his sins a long time ago.

At this point it’s like he’s holding out just because he has some abstract idea that he should.

“I had a dream about you last night,” Tony says, a hand traveling across Steve’s chest.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm. You’re not as much of a boy scout in my dreams.”

“Whatever I did, I probably don’t want to hear about it.” 

Tony laughs, softly, lips brushing against the sensitive parts of Steve’s neck. “You held me down and fucked me,” he says. “Hard and fast. Told me how good I felt. Told me I was yours and you could use me however you wanted, that you were never gonna let me go.”

“Oh, hey,” Steve says, smiling anyway. “Look at that, I didn’t want to hear about it.”

“I liked knowing you wanted me,” Tony says. “That you couldn’t keep your hands off of me. Made me feel good. Like you really cared about me.”

He swallows. That’s what always gets him, when Tony stops trying to convince him how good it’ll feel and recognizes that it’s more than that. That it has meaning, a whole lot of meaning. That’s what makes him want to roll over and pin Tony to the sheets, to show him just how much he loves him.

Of course, since it’s Tony, he’s probably just figured out that he likes to hear that.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Complete honesty. How much of that dream did you just make up?”

He can hear the smirk in Tony’s voice. “Oh, definitely all of it.”

“Thought so.”

“Don’t pretend like you’re not enjoying this.” Tony’s hand slides down Steve’s stomach.

Steve smiles. “That was there when I woke up.”

“Even more reason to do something about it,” Tony says, stroking him, gently licking his shoulder as he does.

Steve swallows, and Tony hasn’t worn him down, not even a little bit, he could hold out forever against the wheedling, it’s just that he’s finding more and more that he really doesn’t want to. 

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I’ll... you know. Fuck you.”

Tony sits up suddenly, bouncing a bit on the bed, looking at Steve with a wary grin on his face. All pretense of sleepiness or seduction is completely gone. “Really?”

“Mhmm.”

“If you’re joking we’re through. I mean it. You don’t play with my emotions like that.”

Steve smiles, even as he realizes that Tony’s kind of right. There’s no backing down now. “I’m not joking. Right now?"

"No." From the sound of his groan it’s like Tony’s been physically hurt. "Right now I have work."

"It's a Saturday."

"It's a shitty job."

“When you get back,” Steve says, reminding himself that he shouldn’t be committing to this and not caring as much as he knows he should.

Tony practically hops out of bed. “I’m holding you to that.”

Steve smiles, rolling over so that he can watch Tony get dressed. It's not quite the same as watching Tony get undressed, but the way he moves his hips to put on a tight pair of slacks – well, it's not helping with the little problem that Tony's started in Steve's underwear either.

"You could just unbutton them first."

"What, and rob you of the show?"

"You know, when I agreed to go out with you, I was under the impression that you never did any work."

Tony smirks. "When you agreed to go out with me, you were under the impression that you weren't agreeing to go out with me."

"You know what I mean. All the tabloids make you out to be some irresponsible playboy."

'It's not my fault 'alcoholic Tony Stark' makes a better headline than 'workaholic Tony Stark.” He disappears, coming out of the closet with two ties. "Which do you like better?"

He doesn’t wait for an answer. "You're right, the red one."

Steve stretches. "I just didn't think you would be the type of person to get me all hot and bothered and then disappear."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Okay," he says. "I have two minutes. Strip."

He wriggles out of his boxer-briefs, moaning a bit at the thought of Tony going down on him in a suit.

"False start. That's a disqualification."

"Stop wasting time.” 

And then Tony's lips are wrapped around him.

"Mm, yeah – oh, god," Steve moans, as Tony lets him into his throat and swallows. "Don't stop."

He does.

"Gotta go, honey," he says, smirking with a devilish amount of glee.

"I hate you."

"Get yourself off."

"You know I won't."

Tony smirks again. "Have a good day, sweetie," he says, kissing him quickly on the lips. "Wait here for me? I don't know when I'll be back."

"Yeah, sure."

"There’s frozen food in the kitchen, or you can use one of my tabs to order something.”

Steve smiles. “I think I can manage to feed myself.” 

He thinks about saying “I love you,” but settles for “have a good day.”

And then he rolls over, and thinks about sleeping, and finds that he can’t.

He’s told Tony he loves him a couple more times, after that first time, and every time Tony’s smiled and acted like he’s not expected to say it back. Maybe he’s not. 

Tony does call him baby, and honey, and any number of mostly food-related nicknames that seem to be generated on the spot. And that feels good. That feels great, actually, but it’s not the same.

And Steve knows that he’s not perfect either, because he can tell Tony he loves him, but every time he tries to call him ‘baby’ or ‘honey’ it feels wrong. Like that’s not something he’s supposed to be saying to a man.

Sleeping’s a lot easier when Tony’s there. 

He rolls around on the bed, adjusts the pillows, and the bed is comfortable and soft and all of the things a bed is supposed to be. It’s his thoughts that are the problem.

He feels like a millionaire, here. Or, he wishes he did. Because really, he just feels like a kept man.

He’s been going out for drinks after graphic design classes, with Jason and Allie and Carlos and Trang and Adil and Monica, the kids in the class who have ID cards that say they’re at least 21, even if they’re not. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps an eye on them to make sure they haven’t had too much. 

These kids, they’ve got all of these concerns he doesn’t have, and then they have the one concern in common: money. Except while they’re worrying about money they’re ordering expensive drinks and appetizers and Steve’s drinking complementary water and assuring them that he doesn’t need to share their fries.

Just last week they’d talked about sugar daddies, laughing at how ridiculous but also how great it would be to just have some rich older man who could pay for school, and apartments, and clothes, and everything else that they wanted, all in exchange for a little bit of sex.

Steve had sat there and occasionally chimed in. Tried to convince himself that he was joking about it just as much as they were. 

He knows that’s not what he has with Tony, that Tony just happens to be rich and free with money and a little too excited about buying Steve shirts that are a size too small. It’s not the same.

But damned if sometimes it doesn’t feel a bit like it.

He gets up after a bit, pulls his boxers back on and heads into the adjacent office. When Tony gets up before Steve – which, so far, has happened every time he’s stayed over – he leaves something open on the computer for him. 

Today, it’s mostly porn. 

Steve closes all of that without looking at it. He’s still a little bit old fashioned. But he reads the how-to page against his better judgement, turning progressively redder as he makes his way down the very matter-of-fact guide. 

He drums his fingers on the table and thinks that if there’s required reading, shouldn’t that make people think twice about how natural it is?

And then he thinks that he’s unnatural, and so is Tony, and if there’s reading material on this then clearly they’re not the only two people doing it. 

After that he takes a cold shower. 

He spends most of it thinking about Tony. About what he can do to make him happy. He wants to make him happy, he wants to write him a note or do something for him, but Tony already has plenty of people who do things for him and Steve’s still not sure if it’s a good thing to remind Tony that he loves him. 

The only thing he knows is guaranteed to make Tony happy is to have sex with him. 

And he does want to do that. He’s not opposed to the idea of it, really. He just wishes that it weren’t so important. He wishes that Tony didn’t value the one thing Steve is least morally comfortable with more than he values anything else. 

He finishes his cold shower, and then he heads down to Tony’s gym, to work out. And then he takes another shower in Tony’s ridiculously fancy bathroom.

And then he’s not really sure what to do.

There are plenty of distractions, of course. It’s just that he barely feels comfortable with using things like Tony’s bed and Tony’s shower, he’s not about to go use his home theater or bowling alley.

So he lies down on the bed, and watches TV because he’s hoping it’ll numb him, that it’ll fight off the feelings that come with being alone.

It doesn’t.

He’s been better at forgetting since Tony started becoming his life. He’s had something to distract him. But that’s when he’s home, in his run down little apartment, and he can think of Tony as almost a fairy tale.

Here, in this ridiculous house, all he can feel is guilt.

Tony’s not going to rescue him from anything because there’s nothing to rescue him from. There’s nothing in his life that isn’t good, isn’t beyond everything he’s ever deserved. And the fact that he can’t wake up every morning ecstatic about what he’s been given makes him feel unbearably guilty.

If he could characterize the 21st century in a single word it’d be guilt.

Guilt about all of the people he’s lost, and guilt about loving Tony and guilt about the things he does because he loves him and guilt about doing nothing with his life because he’s too busy feeling guilty to get a job.

Bucky would expect him to do something with his life. He knows that. He knows Peggy expects it, he does his best to avoid any mention that he’s not doing anything with his life around her. He knows Tony expects it, knows that’s why he keeps pushing Steve to develop marketable art skills when Steve doesn’t even pick up a pencil anymore unless Tony’s handing it to him and expecting him to sketch something with it.

He knows Bucky would expect him to do something with his life. And that’s the one that gets him, he can ignore Peggy’s concern and Tony’s urging but what he can’t ignore is that he let Bucky down and he doesn’t even have anything to show for it.

Bucky’s the one he’s not allowed to feel bad about.

He knows there’s no one policing his feelings, but there’s this expectation anyway. He can feel it. Because to everybody else he died seventy years ago. And Peggy was right, Steve shouldn’t blame himself, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it anyway. Bucky made a choice and he recognizes that and he understands that and he respects that but it wasn’t even a choice until Steve put it on the table.

Tony’s never even asked about him. To everyone else, Bucky’s ancient history. And Steve acts like he agrees but then he closes his eyes and sees Bucky falling off of that train, sees him before that, sees his smile and thinks about how much Bucky never got to do.

He takes a hot shower, lets the water run over his face so he won’t know whether he’s crying or not. 

*****

The opulence finally gets to him around 11:30. He’s sitting in Tony’s study, reading a scientific magazine that he doesn’t understand, just because it’s better than anything else he could think of doing.

He doesn’t know half of the words in any of the reading materials in Tony’s study. At least they remind him that for all the world is the same in all the wrong ways, they’re still making new discoveries every day.

And, if the paper he’s reading is anything to go off of, making up words.

11:30 is when he picks up another magazine, this one with two bookmarks in it, and discovers that they’re both $100 bills. 

And that on its own shouldn’t be enough to set him off. Tony probably just didn’t have anything else on hand. But combined with everything else it’s a reminder that he’s doing nothing and enjoying the rewards that he didn’t earn.

He has Fury on the line before he lets himself think about it. “This better be damn important.”

“Sir, it’s Steve Rogers.”

“I know who it is.”

Steve swallows. “I’d like to come work for SHIELD.”

He can practically hear the satisfaction in Fury’s voice. “There’s an extensive screening process for field agents,” he says. “But I imagine we can waive most of that in your case.”

“All due respect, sir, I don’t want to be a field agent.”

There’s silence on the line, and then crackling. “I’ll work something out, give you a call.”

He’s pretty sure the line goes dead, but he still says “thank you, sir,” just to be safe.

He looks at the phone for a bit after he hangs up, as though it holds any answers. It was a good decision. Tony’s not going to like it. It was still a good decision.

After that he decides to reward himself with lunch. 

*****

The kitchen, like everything else in the house, is too big. And he paces around it, opens cupboards and closes them. And then he stands in front of the freezer, picking out the things that seem cheap.

And then he has to try and figure out the toaster.

Before he can, there's a noise behind him. The first thing he thinks is intruder, and then he spins around and finds himself looking at Bruce Banner.

"Steve?" Bruce is fixing him with a look of utter confusion. "What are you doing here?"

If he were Tony, he'd have an excuse, but he's not and he doesn't. He thinks fast, trying to formulate something. "I- uhm, Tony, he, uh," he swallows, gives up. "Don't tell anyone?"

"Oh," Bruce says, eyes widening. "Sure."

He looks at the eggo waffles that Steve had stupidly and instinctively tried to hide behind a plant. "Are you in a hurry? Because I was planning to can cook actual food if you don't mind waiting."

"Oh." He looks at the kitchen, and at Bruce, and at the pathetic waffles, and nods. "Yeah. That would be great."

Steve sits gingerly on one of the bar stools, watching as Bruce pulls things out of the refrigerator, convincing himself that this isn’t as bad as he thinks it is. Bruce doesn’t even seem all that surprised.

He wonders if that’s because it’s obvious, that he’s... whatever Tony called it. Not normal.

“Thank you,” he says. “For being nice about this. I don’t really deserve it, after how I treated you on the helicarrier.”

Bruce shrugs. “I can’t blame you for not wanting us to wind up in the ocean,” he says, a small smirk forming on his lips. “And if that sounds familiar it’s because verbatim that’s what I told you last time.”

Steve smiles. “Well, that was a long time ago.”

Bruce nods, running the vegetables under the tap. “Kinda thought we’d be seeing more of each other, back then.”

“Guess we all did.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence, just long enough for Steve to start thinking he needs to fill it, when Bruce looks up, hesitant.

“You don’t seem like the one-night-stand type,” he says, not making eye contact. “If you’ll pardon my asking.”

“We didn’t...” Steve starts, and then he turns a little red too because that’s a lie. “I think the only way it’d qualify as a one night stand is if today were January 14th.”

“Oh,” Bruce says, half of his mouth curling into a little smile. “So you’re the mystery boyfriend.”

Steve nods.

“Was beginning to think he was making you up,” he says.

He changes the topic as they eat, asks about Bruce’s life. The food is good, the conversation is okay, and by the end he’s beginning to feel like maybe this was a good encounter.

“So,” Bruce says. “I guess Tony’s told you all about his little plan to get the Avengers back together?”

Steve looks up. That’s the first he’s heard of the Avengers in a long time. “No.”

“Oh.” Bruce shrugs. “Guess I was more excited by the idea than he was.”

Steve nods. That could be it. 

"Who else knows? I mean, that you’re dating Tony.”

Steve swallows. "Pepper, and Peggy. She's someone I knew from before."

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

"Wow." Bruce blinks. "And Tony's okay with it?"

"With what?"

"The secrecy."

Steve shrugs. “No.”

Bruce smiles.

“I’ll get the dishes,” Steve says. He’s not intending that as a sign that they should leave, not exactly. Being around someone is still better than being alone.

“Oh,” Bruce says. “Yeah. I should probably let you get back to...”

He trails off, clearly unsure what Steve does with his day.

“And um, actually, while I have you here, could I ask you something?”

Steve nods.

"Listen, don't tell Tony I asked this, but, uh," he rubs the back of his neck and smiles in that self conscious way, "I've been thinking, that it might help me to understand what's going on with my body if I knew a little more about what was going on with yours. What I'm saying is, I'd like to run some tests on you, if you were absolutely, completely okay with it."

He has the body language of a kid doing something he's not supposed to, and for a second Steve hesitates. But there’s nothing to suggest that Bruce isn’t telling the truth.

"Yeah, of course," he says. "It's not a big deal, honest."

"Great, that would be... great.” He smiles, lopsided. “But uh, maybe don't tell Tony anyway. I know he's cussed Fury out for basically the same thing."

He says that so matter-of-factly that Steve feels the need to hide his surprise. 

“Well,” he says, shrugging. “You know how he is. He doesn’t like SHIELD. I don’t know why.”

“Oh, well, I do,” Bruce says, with a grin. “You should consider yourself lucky to have escaped his lectures about SHIELD and how little he trusts them.”

“But he trusts you,” Steve says. “Shouldn’t be an issue.”

Bruce nods.

“Well, Dr. Banner,” Steve says, offering his hand to shake. “I’d be honored to help you. One one condition.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Teach me how to cook.”

*****

He meets Tony in the foyer when he gets home, catches him taking his jacket off and hanging it on a statue. “I’m done with people,” he announces, pulling Steve against him for a kiss. “Let’s you and I just buy a private island and disappear, hmm?”

Steve rolls his eyes and retrieves the jacket from the statue, folding it over his arm. He’s fairly certain it doesn’t go there.

“Do you want to eat? Or should we just move on to…” Tony pauses, raises his eyebrows suggestively, “other things?”

“I made dinner.”

“Oh. Great,” Tony says. “Where from?”

“I cooked it.”

Tony fixes him with a dubious look. “You don’t cook.”

“Ran into Bruce in the kitchen. Had him teach me. He assures me it’ll be edible.”

“Oh,” Tony says, and then he registers that and a smile spreads across his face. “Oh. Did you tell him? That we’re, you know, dating?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Are we? Is that what we’re doing?”

“Okay, smartass. Dinner?”

He’s especially nice throughout the meal, happy and complementary, and just a little bit seductive, the way he often is, and Steve’s never sure if he’s doing it on purpose or if that’s just how he acts.

Of course, this time around there’s a lot of reason to think that he’s doing it on purpose.

He thinks about bringing up what he talked to Bruce about, and thinks better of it. So they just chat about Tony’s day, and discuss whether Steve can really say he’s a better cook than Tony when Bruce probably did most of the work.

That last part isn’t a discussion so much as something that Tony posits partway through the meal, as though this has been a matter of great internal debate for him. 

They don’t talk about what they’re planning to do after dinner, and despite or maybe because of this, Steve starts getting nervous somewhere around the end of the meal. It’s not like they haven’t had sex plenty of times. But still, this is different.

Tony even seems to notice.

“You don’t _have_ to fuck me if you don’t want to,” he says, taking a last sip of his wine, wrinkling his nose like the very thought of abstaining is distasteful.

Steve smiles. It’s kind of sweet, that Tony cares enough about his feelings to pretend he’s considering them. “Try that again with more conviction.”

Tony smirks. 

“I do want to,” Steve says. “Really.”

“Try _that_ with a little more conviction,” Tony says, reaching across the table to grasp his hand.

*****

After dinner Tony excuses himself to shower, giving Steve the remote and promising, with a little seductive smirk, that it’ll be worth the wait. 

Steve sits there watching the news but really just running through the checklist of what he’s expected to do. There’s not too much. Go slow, lots of lube. He can do that.

He shouldn’t do it, but he’s going to. Because Tony deserves someone whose personal hang ups won’t get in the way of a relationship. And Steve’s not that person but he’ll pretend to be him for as long as he possibly can.

Tony clears his throat.

Steve turns, slowly, like it’s a chore. And he sees Tony leaning against the wall, damp hair falling across his forehead, towel hanging precariously off his hips, eyes soft and lips parted.

“Just a second,” Steve says, trying and failing to tear his eyes away from Tony’s body. “There’s a good commercial on.”

Tony smirks. “Get over here.” 

Steve smiles, slow and genuine, stands up and stretches, pulls his shirt over his head, letting his arms linger at the top. Tony’s taught him a thing or two. He almost doesn’t feel ridiculous.

He takes his belt off as he closes the distance between them, undoes the button, and is about to pull his pants down when there are hands on top of his.

“Uh-uh,” Tony says, shaking his head. “That’s my job.”

He grabs the khakis on either side of the zipper, pulling Steve against him by the hips, hard. And then he slowly, slowly works them down his hips, his eyes locked on Steve’s, their lips just inches apart.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You gonna kiss me?”

Steve smiles. “Maybe I like this better.”

“I have to do everything around here,” Tony says, trying so hard to frown through his smile.

So Steve kisses him on the neck instead, drags his teeth along Tony’s clavicle and then makes his way up, to the corner of his jaw, and Tony squirms like he doesn’t like it but Steve knows better.

“God, you drive me crazy,” Tony whispers, breath coming heavy. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day. Spent hours in that boardroom with a massive erection, not even trying to hide it, just thinking about how good you’re gonna feel inside me.”

Steve blushes, a soft moan escaping unbidden from his throat. He backs Tony against the wall, helps the towel fall off of his hips. And Tony twists around, grinds his ass against Steve’s crotch, arching his back as Steve’s lips press against his neck.

“Unh, fuck, baby,” Tony says. “Fuck me with that big fucking cock.”

Tony reaches for Steve’s hands and pulls them down to his hips, rubbing himself against Steve’s cock.

Steve swallows. They haven’t even kissed yet. “Tony,” he says, trying to control his breathing, “Uh, can we, uh, slow down?”

Tony twists back to face him, a little smirk on his lips. He looks up at Steve through his lashes and cups Steve’s cheek with one hand. “Just foreplay, babe,” he says, his breath coming heavy. “Come on, we can go ‘slow down’ in the room.”

Steve follows him, catching his breath, trying not to berate himself for overreacting. He’s not even naked yet, of course Tony wasn’t expecting him to penetrate him right there. 

“So,” Tony says, turning, smirking. “Orgasms are good for nerves. Do you want me on my knees, or would you rather lay down?”

Steve hesitates. “Uh, on your knees,” he says, thrown by the sudden turn of events but still letting Tony tug his boxers down. He really can’t complain about Tony’s tongue on his balls and Tony’s lips on his shaft and Tony’s mouth warm and wet around him.

Tony obviously doesn’t experience the same guilt Steve does with every orgasm. He’s obviously expecting this to help. And Steve doesn’t remember that it’s just going to make things worse until it’s too late.

But he can’t let Tony down so he fights it, faking a smile as he stands up to kiss him. And Tony drags him onto the bed, sits cross legged, facing him.

“You read what I left you?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, thinking about how clinical it had seemed, wondering if this is really something he should be doing.

“You watch anything I left you?”

“No.”

Tony smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

Steve swallows.

Tony kisses him, gently, his fingers on Steve’s jaw. And then harder, leaning into it, helping Steve’s hands explore his body. And somewhere along the way, with Tony’s lips against his and Tony’s hands in his hair, it starts feeling okay again.

“I’m ready,” he says, Tony’s hand on his erection.

Tony smirks. “I can tell.”

Steve swallows.

“Go slow, lots of lube. If you can’t get three fingers in you’re not putting your cock in. Okay?”

Steve swallows again, nods, moves his hands along Tony’s hips and manages to form the syllables. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Tony says, smiling almost shyly, in this pure, adorable way that Steve’s never seen before. It lasts for a couple of seconds and then, suddenly, it’s gone. “Or, you know, two and a half fingers. You have big hands.”

Steve rolls his eyes, cups Tony’s face in one hand and kissing him again, soft and slow. Because as ready as he said he was he still wants to stretch this part out a little longer.

And Tony puts up with that for a little bit, but not long. “Fuck, Steve, stop teasing me,” he whispers, pulling back. “This is not where I want your tongue to be.”

Steve grins and he pushes Tony onto his back, making a conscious decision to be dominant because he knows Tony likes that. He kisses down Tony’s torso, spreads his legs and sucks the head of Tony’s cock into his mouth. 

“Ungh, damn it, Steve,” Tony moans, hips rocking up to Steve’s mouth. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

Steve looks up at him in mock innocence.

“God, you’re the worst,” Tony says, grinning. “You know I’m being vague for your sake, right? I don’t mind telling you to stick your hot little tongue in my ass.”

Steve blushes, hard.

“I’ll make it easier on you,” Tony says, rolling over, getting on his knees, arching his back, moaning in anticipation.

Steve slides his hands along Tony’s hips, lowers his mouth to kiss him on one cheek. He loves the way Tony smells. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to, if that’s normal, but he loves it anyway. Even fresh out of the shower, with the rest of his skin soap-scented, Steve can still smell that same musky familiar scent.

He runs his tongue over Tony’s skin, softly, gently, enjoying the way Tony squirms and tells him to just hurry up already. And he presses into him with the tip of his tongue, feels Tony part for him, imagines how it’d feel if it were his cock instead of his tongue, and suddenly keepings things slow doesn’t seem like the best idea.

But he holds himself back, determined to do this right. And Tony moans, moving his hips to find a better angle, one hand pressing on the back of Steve’s head, alternating pleas of “deeper” and “harder.”

The first finger goes in easily, and Steve’s breath catches at how well Tony takes it, at how slick and warm he is. 

The second one takes a little longer.

The third feels awfully tight. 

Steve wouldn’t even have tried to quickly if it weren’t for Tony’s urging; for all that he’d said to go slow, apparently what he’d meant was something more along the lines of “one at a time,” because Steve’s barely gotten the second finger in before Tony’s telling him that he can take more.

And he can, just barely, so Steve thrusts into him with his fingers for a while before giving in to Tony’s pleas to finally just fuck him already. 

He gets on his knees, rests one hand on the small of Tony’s back. He rubs the head of his cock against Tony’s ass and his breath catches at what he’s about to do. At how much he wants to do it. 

“Oh God, Steve,” Tony moans, arching his back, spreading his legs even wider. “Stop teasing.”

So he pushes in, slowly, feeling some resistance, but every time he decides he’s going too fast Tony rocks backward, forcing him further. 

It’s amazing. It’s unbelievably amazing, to be inside of Tony, to be so fully linked to him. And it feels great, better than anything has so far and god, he is not going to last.

He holds his position, gets used to how it feels, and Tony clenches around him, sending little spasms through him. He leans forward so his chest is against Tony’s back, reaches across Tony’s torso and grabs hold of his shoulder.

“You ready baby?”

Tony moans. “Uhn, god, yes.” 

Tony moves under him, arching his back and rolling his hips and Steve matches him as much as he can. As much as he’s in a dominant position Tony’s very much the one in charge, the one dictating the flow of their bodies. 

He wraps his other hand around Tony’s cock, kisses Tony on the shoulder, on the neck, and then Tony twists so he can kiss him on the lips. He just needs to kiss him, needs to feel as close to him as he possibly can.

It feels like they fit together perfectly. Like Tony’s curves were made to fit into the hollows of Steve’s body. 

“Tony – uh, uhn, Tony, I –”

Tony’s not nearly as far gone but there’s still a little catch to his voice as he says, “you’re gonna come?”

Steve nods, pressing his lips to Tony’s neck as the first spasm hits him, pulling him closer, thrusting even deeper, his lips seemingly only capable of forming the word "Tony.”

It’s the closest he’s ever felt to another human being, the closest he can ever imagine feeling.

He keeps going, hoping that he won’t go soft if he focuses on how good Tony feels, but he still does. So he pulls out, sits down, tries to catch his breath. Physically, what they just did wasn’t exhausting. Emotionally...

Tony turns around, puts a hand on Steve’s thigh.

“That was... too soon,” he says, and he knows he’s stating a fact but he’s kind of hoping Tony will correct him anyway, for his ego’s sake.

Tony smirks. “I’m kinda really good in bed,” he says, a charismatic self-satisfaction apparent in his smile. “You’ll get it up again.”

He’s right, of course. It doesn’t even take long, not with Tony’s cock in his hand and Tony’s lips on his and the memory, all of the good memories playing in his mind.

He’s a little more confident this, time, knows what to do, knows how it works, and he’s rougher, just a little bit, enters him slowly, still, but without all of the hesitation. 

He holds Tony close again, loves to feel him sweaty and warm, gasping as Steve’s cock presses into him. And Tony’s just as active, hips moving against Steve’s, just as tight, just as devastatingly good.

He runs his hands along Tony’s torso, looking for purchase, and then one comes to rest against the arc reactor.

Tony stops moving. 

His hand closes over Steve’s, pulls it away, and he’s breathing heavily as he says, “not a great place to put that.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, automatically, backing away, worrying.

“It’s fine. It’s fine, you didn’t know.”

“Tony?”

“Steve?”

“You okay?”

Tony slides his hand over Steve’s jaw, pulling him in for a kiss. “I’m fine.”

He holds Tony against him and kisses him and tries to get back that confidence, but there’s too much concern holding him back.

“Is there anything else I shouldn’t do?”

Tony looks at him like he can’t believe he’s asking.

“Tony --”

“No, no, there’s just the one thing. Just don’t grab the arc reactor and we’ll be great. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Tony smiles, begrudgingly. “You know, you’re the first guy I’ve met who’s more concerned about me than getting off.”

Steve smiles, glad Tony realizes that his concern is a good thing.

“But I’m including myself in that group, so how about we get back to fucking? Do you wanna try a new position?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, he just pushes Steve onto his back. And he lowers himself onto Steve’s cock, biting his lip as he bottoms out. “Ahh, fuck,” he says, but not not in a good way. “I forgot how thick you are.”

Steve blushes, embarrassed that it feels good for him when Tony’s in pain. “I’m sorry.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “No you’re not. You’re not ever sorry for your cock,” he says, leaning forward to kiss him. “Or the very, very naughty things I want you to do with it. Okay?”

He blushes, gasping as Tony begins moving. He likes this position a lot, likes the fact that they can kiss, and that he can run his hands along Tony’s back and grab his hips and feel Tony’s hands in his hair. He likes that it’s slow.

And at the same time he finds himself wanting to move, needing to be the one moving, and he thrusts along with Tony’s gyrations until Tony sits up.

“You can fuck me like this,” he says, taking Steve’s hands and putting them on his hips. “Okay?”

Steve nods, swallowing, and shifts around trying to find the right position. Tony looks absolutely beautiful like this, a little bit out of breath with his hair mussed, but then he looks beautiful all of the time. And Steve starts to move, slowly, watches as Tony reacts, biting his lip and then closing his eyes as he lets his mouth fall open, and decides that maybe he likes this position best.

“Harder,” Tony says, running his hands along Steve’s obliques.

Steve does his best to adjust, trying to figure out this strange new movement, hands still glued to Tony’s hips, loving the way they feel there.

“Faster.”

He figures it out, fucks into Tony so fast that he’s almost afraid that he’s hurting him, harsh and sharp, hips rising, gasping as Tony’s fingers brush against his nipples.

“Come on,” Tony pants. “Like you mean it.”

It’s like something snaps in him, like he loses all of the self control he’s been so accustomed to, and he lets go of all of his concern, hips snapping upward with reckless abandon, and Tony gasps like air is a precious commodity and Steve should be concerned with that but he’s not, because Tony asked for it.

Tony’s moans come in a string of lowering and rising pitches, like it’s one steady moan being modulated by the sharp thrust of Steve’s cock inside of him. And if his face is any indication he’s as surprised by his orgasm as Steve is, as though he’d completely forgotten that his hand’s been wrapped around his cock. His semen shoots across his stomach and his chest, but Steve’s more interested in his face, in the blissful expression that he doesn’t get to see when he’s sucking him off. 

He’s absolutely beautiful.

It doesn’t take him long to finish, not with the visuals and Tony’s heavy breathing and the fact that he can finally let go and care about his own orgasm. He finishes with Tony’s hands on his chest and Tony’s eyes on his and even though he’s already come twice it’s just as good as the other times, maybe even better.

He’s expecting Tony to get up, or at least off, but he just lays down against Steve’s chest, sighing contentedly. And he kisses him, lazy, like the effort’s been fucked out of him. “God,” he breathes. “That was your first time. That _was_ your first time, right?”

Steve smiles. “Yes.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony says, rolling onto his back. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

Steve lies there, holding Tony’s hand, listening to Tony breathe, his head spinning, no concept of time. And finally he sighs, and sits up. “We should get cleaned up.”

Tony grumbles something incomprehensible, either half asleep or faking. 

So Steve gets up, washes off in the shower and comes back with a damp washcloth.

Tony squirms a little at the touch, makes some vague, dissenting noise, and Steve smiles down at him and feels this protective swell of fondness in his chest, this intense desire to watch over him and make him happy.

“I love you,” he says, because there’s no way he could keep the words inside, even if he wanted to. And he cuddles up next to him, and falls asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Tony’s still there when he wakes up. Steve blinks and checks the clock and wonders if he’s dreaming, because it’s almost 9 and Tony’s still there. He’s wrapped around a pillow, back to Steve, and he’s no longer snoring but he’s breathing heavily enough that it’s a sure bet he’s still asleep.

Steve scoots a little closer, until he can just feel the warmth of Tony’s back against his chest, careful not to wake him.

He likes it like this.

He likes getting to wake up next to him.

This is the first time Tony’s been asleep in the morning, the first time Steve’s been able to really appreciate what it’s like to wake up and know there’s someone who cares about him, who trusts him, someone who depends on him, even in the very slightest of ways.

He likes Tony when he’s asleep. Because when Tony wakes up, there are only ever three things on his mind: food, or sex, or work, and they’re all urgent all of the time. He wishes they could focus on the small things instead, wishes they could spend the morning laying in bed and talking, just talking. Wishes Tony would make some decision about him. Let him know how he feels.

He knows Tony likes having him around, that much is evident, but Tony could substitute anybody for the role that Steve plays in his life, and Steve knows that too.

He wishes he could feel as confident about their relationship as he knows he should. Wishes like hell that he hadn’t spent so long waiting for the slightest chance to be with Peggy, because then he would have experience, at least, he would know if it’s normal to not know what he is to Tony when Tony’s almost everything to him.

He’s thought about asking Peggy but he doesn’t like to do that, he doesn’t like to bring Tony into their relationship any more than he has to. He’d rather they talked about her.

He’s thought about asking Theresa, or even any of the kids in his class, but they all seem to look up to him in a way, to think he knows what he’s doing, and there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to shatter that.

And he’s just barely gotten comfortable referring to Tony as his girlfriend. He can’t imagine having to actually talk about him without letting something slip.

Aside from that, he doesn’t really know anyone.

So those are his options and he’s taken none of them and it’s just him and Tony, Tony who can be sweet and considerate sometimes, who’s warm and comfortable and familiar and beautiful sleeping next to him.

It’s just Steve feeling inexperienced and uncertain and in love, grasping for some sort of understanding, some sort of certainty.

Tony moans, shifts, and Steve nuzzles against him almost instinctively. He closes his eyes, tries to fall asleep so that he’ll get to wake up again, so he can enjoy that moment of confusion, when he opens his eyes and realizes that he’s not alone.

Tony wakes up before he can fall asleep. It turns out that he likes Tony a whole lot when he’s just waking up, too. He yawns, stretches, slow and sleepy, his fingers finding Steve’s. And he smiles, soft, genuine, looks at Steve through half closed eyes, and says, "brunch?"

****

They go out to an actual restaurant for the first time in what seems like forever. Steve’s still a little uneasy about that, about being seen in public with Tony, and Tony, as usual, doesn’t seem to care at all. He just talks about how good the bacon is, and how Steve’s going to love it, and how they should go out more because there’s so many places Steve’s never even been.

And Steve lets him go on about that, doesn’t complain about how Tony’s got one hand on his thigh while he should be using both of them for driving about how he keeps glancing over when his eyes should be on the road, because it’s the closest this feels to normal.

He knows nothing’s going to last, that they’ll go out today and they’ll go back to meeting up when Tony’s not busy and eating catered meals while watching movies that Tony values too much to interrupt with kissing, and then they’ll kiss and they’ll have sex, and he’ll wake up the next morning and Tony will be gone, and he’ll have left a website for him, and that’s nice but it doesn’t hold a candle to waking up and having Tony next to him, to going out and talking, to just doing nothing at all together because they can.

Steve can tell the place is expensive before he even gets the menu. He flips through it, trying not to fixate on the price, trying to figure out how he can get the most food for the least. Sure, he’ll have a job now, but that doesn’t mean he should be spending money.

"Order whatever you want," Tony says. "I'm paying."

"I can pay for myself." He shouldn’t be spending Tony’s money either.

"Well, yeah,” Tony says. “But I'm not going to let you. I picked the restaurant, I'll pay."

Steve closes his menu, bites his lip. There’s no harm in asking. "Do you think I'm just with you for your money?"

A slow smile spreads across Tony’s face. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then why ask?”

He glances around. All of the other tables are consumed in conversation and there’s no waiter nearby but that doesn’t stop him from lowering his voice anyway. “I don’t know.”

“Why are we whispering?”

Steve sighs. They’re whispering because he was going to say something else, something that he’s not comfortable mentioning in public.

“You’re gonna have to enunciate better,” Tony whispers, hiding behind his menu. “Or did you just fart?”

Steve laughs, unexpected and a little too loud and he claps his hand over his mouth. What the hell. “Have you heard of ‘sugar daddies’?”

Tony laughs, tries to turn it into a cough, and then gives up and laughs some more. “Yes. I’ve heard of them,” he says, still laughing, still whispering. “The question is, how did you?”

Steve shrugs. “Kids from that graphic design class.”

“And you’re asking...”

Steve blushes.

Tony laughs. "Well first of all, I'm not that much older than you."

That’s true. That’s reassuring. Of course he’s wrong. Got some stupid idea in his head.

"I mean, how young are you? 30? 29?"

Steve swallows, doesn't meet his gaze.

"Steve?"

"23. Technically"

"Oh." Tony seems taken aback a bit. "Well, I can see why you might have thought that."

"Is that a problem?"

"No," Tony says, a little too quickly. "Not if you're okay with it."

"I am."

"Okay," Tony says, looking away

Steve wants to say something, but what does he say to that? He could change the subject. He probably shouldn’t.

Tony clears his throat and looks off into the distance and straightens his tie.

Steve takes a drink of water, and looks down at his menu, and wishes Tony would say something.

And then a jam packet hits him in the face, and he looks up, and Tony’s smirking at him

“Of course I knew how old you are,” he says. He grins, flicks a sugar packet at him. “Who do you think I am?”

Steve smiles, shrugs.

Tony gets serious again, leans forward, whispers, which is considerate of him. “You really think I’d pay you for sex?”

Steve blushes. That’s not how he’d been thinking about it. “I didn’t — think about it, I guess.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “God, you’re —” he trails off, smiles. “Cute.”

Steve glances around to see it anyone can see, feels his ears grow even redder.

“And you still blush, which is great,” Tony says, “Never lose that.”

He smiles. Wishes they were alone. Wishes he weren’t so goddamned concerned about being noticed dating another guy, actually, because he likes it like this, he likes it with a little space, where they can’t just fall into bed, where there are little glances and layered smiles.

He wants something in between this and that, something where they’re normal, and go on dates and go out to art museums and can hold hands in public or even just hold hands at all because it’s not exactly something they can do in public.

But this, this isn’t bad.

Even if he has to watch for the waiter so he won’t get caught smiling so goofily, even if he has to keep his voice down.

By the time the food comes, he’s comfortable, as comfortable as he’s ever going to be in public with Tony, imagining that strangers know what they’ve done, what they did last night.

Tony, of course, is just comfortable. Like always.

And, to hell with it, Tony took his last admission well — why not go for all of it? Maybe the location, the timing, will work in his favor. "I took the job at SHIELD,” he says, immediately following it up with a bite of frittata.

Tony looks at him sharply. "When?"

"Yesterday."

"Why?" There’s this harsh tone to his voice, this deep disapproval, and Steve swallows.

"Need the money."

"No you don't.”

"If I can work, I should."

Tony practically stabs his hash browns. "You can work somewhere else."

"I don't have any non-military skills.”

"Then work at McDonalds."

Steve ignores that.

"I thought you didn't agree with their politics."

"I don't."

"Then why the hell are you getting involved?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I'll change things."

Tony snorts. "Good luck with that."

He knows shouldn't push it, but he does. "You consult for them, how's that different?"

"I can see through their bullshit."

"So can I."

Tony shrugs. "You shouldn't have to."

He doesn't push it any further, just shovels down his food like he’s starving. If Tony wants to be well behaved, he's not going to stop him.

Tony’s only silent for a little bit, and then they talk about innocuous things like world politics and bacon, and Steve can almost convince himself that there’s nothing wrong.

But the ride home is markedly less companionable, in the sense that Tony keeps his hands to himself for what’s probably the first time since they first slept together. And when they get back he dismisses Steve because he has “things to do.”

He’s got that thoughtful, distracted look on his face, so it’s really not unlikely that he does have things to do. Probably some breakthrough or other in his lab. God knows what he’s tinkering with.

“Call me later,” Steve says, kissing him goodbye, and Tony promises that he will, and that’s good enough.

****

At 10, Tony hasn’t called. And Steve knows it’s stupid to worry about that, because Tony forgets to call all of the time. He forgets to be home when he tells Steve to come over, sometimes. He forgets to put clothes on all of the time, but that’s probably less about forgetting and more about vanity.

Still, he doesn’t usually forget to answer phone calls.

At 11 he calls Jarvis, something he's never done before. The AI answers the phone, and even though he finds it a little unsettling that he's talking to a computer, Steve manages to work out that Tony's home, and awake, Bruce and Pepper are most likely sleeping, and Steve is welcome to come over. Or, as Jarvis puts it, "you should come talk to him, sir."

So he goes, creeping carefully into his lab. He finds Tony hunched over a glass and a decanter. The unsteady arch of his eyebrow when he notices Steve indicates that he's already had too much.

"I didn't invite you."

"Jarvis said I should come over."

Tony makes a face. "Congratulations," he slurs, halfway raising his hands in some sort of sarcastic celebration. "You caught me."

"I know you drink."

Tony shrugs, his shoulders raising sluggish and unequal.

"We need to talk," he says, walking up to the bench, taking a seat next to Tony.

Tony shrugs.

"You were upset, this morning. Talk to me."

Tony shrugs.

"Tony?"

Tony shrugs.

"Come on Tony," Steve says. "This isn't like you. What's wrong?"

Tony just takes another drink.

"At least get mad at me."

“Leave me alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”

Tony takes another drink, sloshing a little on his shirt.

“I’m serious,” Steve says. “I’ll sit here until you talk to me.”

Tony sighs, rolls his eyes, and sits up straight. “Okay, fine. I’m not mad at you.”

Steve blinks. “You just —”

“What, you’ve never pretended to be drunk so someone would go away?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He looks at his glass, contemplative, pours himself some more. “I didn’t invite you over.”

“Jarvis said —”

“I don’t care what Jarvis said, he’s not me. You can’t just come in whenever you want.”

“Then who is he?”

Tony blinks. “Pardon?”

“Jarvis isn’t a person, Tony. He’s a computer.”

Tony smirks. “Condescending, and wrong. He’s an AI. He can and does make his own decisions.”

“Well, I’m here now.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, grimacing. “What a waste of a trip. I’ll call you.”

“Tony —”

“I mean, seeing how you’re already here, we could fuck. That’s definitely an option.”

“Can you please just be serious for one minute?”

“I’m completely serious. I want to fuck. Don’t you?”

“Not when you’re drunk.”

“Oh, come on, that was an act.”

“You’ve had two glasses since I got here.”

“Hmm.” Tony looks at the glass, and then back at the decanter. “Then it’s definitely time for another.”

“You said you’d call.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“You were mad at me this morning.”

Tony smirks. “Wow, they don’t call you a genius for nothing.”

Steve sighs. “Why?”

“Why do they call you a genius? They don’t, actually.” He wrinkles his nose. “It was a joke, you know, I make those sometimes.”

“Tony —”

“You’re welcome to drink with me, or you’re welcome to go home.”

“You’re not drinking because of me, are you?”

“I’m drinking because I like scotch.”

“You have work tomorrow.”

Tony smirks. “Wrong again. Told Pepper if I was working Saturday I got Monday off. She didn’t actually _agree_ , but she didn’t disagree, so...”

Steve sighs, raises his hands in defeat. “Fine. I’m leaving. Tell Jarvis to ask your permission before he invites me over again.”

“Will do.” He swivels around, hunches over his glass, treating Steve to a great view of his back.

Steve slides his chin over Tony’s shoulder so he can kiss him on the cheek. “So nice to see you,” he says, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, running a hand over Tony’s back, resisting the urge to take his scotch away. That probably wouldn’t help. Might.

Tony leans back against him. “I thought you were leaving.”

“I am.”

“Then go,” Tony says, still leaning against him.

“It’s just a job,” Steve says.

Tony coughs out what sounds like a derisive laugh. “If you really think that then you’re pretty fucking naive.”

“You going to talk to me now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m tired and I’m wasted.”

“Tony —”

“You can stay, if you want.”

Steve sighs. “Why am I even here?”

Tony leans forward. “I think we’re both interested in the answer to that.”

“Okay,” Steve says, capping the decanter. “Fine. I’ll stay. We’ll talk in the morning.”

****

Tony’s still there when he wakes up, except this time he’s buried under blankets and groans when Steve moves. He crawls over with the blankets still on top of him, and Steve figures he must be hungover.

Tony settles his head on Steve's chest, fingers trailing lazily along his obliques, and Steve tries not to flinch as they tickle him in sensitive places. He threads his hand through Tony's hair, curling the other arm around Tony's back, and closes his eyes.

Tony's hands stop moving, and then his breathing slows, becoming deeper, and rougher, and Steve realizes that he's asleep.

It's adorable, for the first ten minutes, the gentle breeze of Tony's breath on his stomach, the way side of the arc reactor brushes against Steve's side with the rise and fall of Tony's chest. After that it's cute, for another fifteen minutes, at which point Steve realizes he's stuck there until Tony wakes up on his own, because there's no way Steve is going to ruin this.

He falls asleep again, mercifully, and when he wakes up, Tony’s back to his usual self, awake, barely squinting in the light, kissing Steve’s chest with obvious intent.

“You said we’d talk,” Steve says, pushing him off, gently.

“I didn’t say when,” Tony says, smirking.

“Now.”

“You’re such a downer, Rogers.”

Steve sighs. "We talk, then can have sex."

"Sex then talk?"

"We're talking first."

"Sex, then sex?"

"Tony."

"Fine," Tony says. "Let's talk. I'll talk about how much I love your cock.”

He lays back down, sighs. “How fucking amazing it was to have you inside me, stretching me open, how I wasn’t even sure I could take it all. Oh god, you felt so good.”

He moans, writhes, and Steve watches his body move with a detached amusement that he’s trying so hard to keep up. “How much I want you to take me, hard, right now. How fucking good it’ll feel, how fucking good I’m gonna make you feel.”

He looks at Steve with his pupils dilated, and pretends to look innocent and oblivious. "So, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

In spite of himself, Steve's getting a little aroused. And Tony’s definitely not going to stop.

"Tony, you're not helping."

"No," Tony says, rolling over and making a show of rubbing himself through his boxers. "You're not helping."

"Ungh, nghh, oh, unh, fuck, oh, Steve," he moans, theatrical and over the top and still somewhat persuasive.

"We're brushing our teeth first," Steve says, scowling at him, and Tony stops immediately, big smile on his face.

"You're the best," he says, kissing Steve on the cheek, and Steve sighs and follows him into the bathroom.

They do it in the shower, slippery and wet, he pushes Tony up against the wall and makes him cry out in ecstasy, holds him tight.

After that he’s not so pushy about talking, not when Tony’s content to cuddle. He’s okay to wait if it means not robbing himself of the part he likes best.

That was probably Tony’s plan. Not that he’s complaining.

Still, he’s not about to let things blow over.

He waits until they’re dressed, eating microwaved leftovers in the kitchen. “What happened last night?”

“You tell me,” Tony says. “I was drunk, remember?”

“Hey. I’m serious. Are you going to freak out like this every time I do something you don’t like?"

"I wasn't 'freaking out,'" Tony says. "I just wanted a little bit of space, which, by the way, you didn’t give me."

“Because you told you would call me.”

Tony shrugs. “Fine. We’re both at fault.”

Steve opens his mouth, the sighs, and waits.

Tony sighs heavily, theatrically, giving in. “Steve, you’re not just some kid from Brooklyn anymore, okay? You haven’t been in a long time. What you do matters.”

“And?”

“And joining Shield, that’s — making a statement. About who you are. What side you stand on.”

Steve sighs. “Is this about getting The Avengers back together?”

Tony shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little unnecessary? You’ve heard what Thor has to say, and there hasn’t been any terrestrial threat in a long time.”

Tony rolls his eyes. "There were eight months of peace after I made the Iron Man suit, and then bam, revenge plot, guy turns into a hulk, super soldier dragged out of the ocean, Asgardian god appears on earth and his brother tries to murder all of us. We'd be stupid not to prepare for something."

“Maybe, but if we want to prepare then Shield’s our best ally.”

“You joining them, that’s not about preparing.”

“You’re right. It’s not about anything”

“You’ve told me you didn’t trust Shield. That you weren’t in their pocket. That you don’t agree with them. And now you’re joining.”

“Because I need a job.”

“It’s never that simple.”

“It is.”

Tony shakes his head. “Maybe for you. But, Steve, I need to know that I can trust you, okay? I need to know that. And now —”

“You can still trust me.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, getting angry. “Yeah, that’s great. Real fucking comforting.”

“Tony —”

“That’s not your call,” he says.

“Then what do you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. I just — damn it Steve, why?”

“I need to work. I can make a difference.”

“Fuck that.” Tony gets up, paces. “I just — I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Steve’s always too quick to anger, he knows that, but Tony just flipped like a switch and he’s pissed about that even without considering the context of what he’s talking about. “What do you expect me to do about it? I can’t tell you to trust me, I’m not going to stop working because you’re paranoid. What do you want from me?”

Tony closes his eyes, clamps them closed, leans over the granite countertop. “I don’t know. It’s not — I’m just telling you why I didn’t call, okay? I need some space, or —”

“Tony,” Steve says, lowering his voice, soft, trying to soothing. “I love you —”

“That’s another thing,” Tony says, cutting him off, nostrils flaring. “I was just gonna let that go because I know, I’m an asshole for saying anything, but would you please stop fucking saying that?”

Steve can’t process that for a moment, he just blinks, mouth open, feels like he’s been struck. And then he narrows his eyes. “You’re right.”

“I am?” Tony’s surprised, but wary, and that’s good because that’s the right response.

“Yeah,” Steve says, nostrils flaring. “You are an asshole.”

Tony laughs, derisive. “Great. Glad we’re on the same page.”

Steve swallows, like he can keep all of his hurt and frustration down with that simple gesture. “I love you, Tony, and I’m not going to stop saying it just because that makes you uncomfortable. If you just want me to fuck you then you have the wrong guy.”

“Do you even know what love is?”

“I think I know a lot better than you do.”

Tony smiles, broad, humorless. “Oh, yeah? You love me? You love me but I have to beg you to have sex with me, and I can’t even tell my friends we’re together. Is that what passed for love in the 1940s? Would you even know?”

“Love isn’t about _sex_ ,” he says, glaring. “Or showing off. But I guess you wouldn’t know that. How many women have you slept with anyway?”

Tony smiles. “Oh, okay, so we’re having this conversation.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “About time we did.”

“So are you talking exact count... or what, exactly? Details? Only the women? What about the men?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t want to hear about any of it.

“You don’t need me for this. Read some tabloids. Ask Jarvis. Draw your own damn conclusions. But what about you? What’s your problem?”

“Excuse me?”

“I find it miraculous that you look like that and never got laid.”

“I wouldn’t just jump into bed with anybody.” He shakes his head, laughs a little, like he’s laughing at Tony, at all the bad decisions he’s ever made. “Sex means something to me.”

Tony smirks. “Eternal damnation?”

“No.” Probably. Not that he cares anymore.

“Then what is it? What possessed you to have sex with me on the first fucking date, and then act like I’m an asshole for expecting it now?”

Steve would blush, almost does, but the irritation sees him through unscathed. And then he finds that he doesn’t have an answer.

“What the hell, Steve? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He swallows, looks him straight in the eye and doesn’t give in a bit but the words aren’t coming anymore.

“There’s something, isn’t there?” Tony’s still angry, he can see it in his eyes, but there’s a bit of curiosity too. “God damn it, Steve.”

“I —” Steve swallows, doesn’t finish.

“I shouldn’t have to beg you,” he says, voice calmer, a little reproachful, his usual, contained self. “I shouldn’t. If you really don’t want to fuck then fine, tell me, and I’ll leave you alone. Okay?”

He shakes his head, mouth twitching into this ironic smile. “I fucking love you, and all I fucking want is to know that you know what it means when you say that to me.”

Steve’s struck again, wordless, looking at him, and he doesn’t know what comes over him. He really doesn’t. “If I didn’t look like this would you have even given me the time of day?”

“You know, I’m getting really sick of your insecurity.”

“It’s not insecurity,” he says, nostrils flaring. “I just don’t want to be valued for the wrong reasons.”

“News flash, Rogers. Every fucking person you ever meet is gonna judge you by how you look. You know that. I know you know that. So don’t fucking dismiss me just because I’m attracted to you.”

Steve doesn’t say anything.

“Are you even attracted to me? I’m not talking about your dick. I mean, when you look at me, do you ever think ‘I want to fuck him’?”

There’s obviously a right answer to that. “Yes.”

“Really?”

Steve sighs. “Not in those terms.”

“Right.”

“I like you,” he says, because he’s afraid to say love. “I look at you and I want to be close to you.”

“But you don’t want to fuck me.”

“Sometimes I do,” Steve says, swallowing, because this absolutely the wrong answer. “Sometimes it’s not that appealing.”

Tony’s mouth opens, and then he narrows his eyebrows and then he raises them and then he shrugs. “Well, I’ve never heard that one before.”

“I like having sex with you,” he says. “Really. I just don’t want to do it all the time.”

“Even counting oral as sex, we’re averaging like three times a week. That’s not ‘all the time’.”

Steve sighs. “I know. I’m just not in the mood that often.”

“Then how often are you in the mood?”

Steve shrugs. A lot, sometimes. Almost always when they were first dating. Very rarely before that. Rarely now. There’s no good answer.

“Well,” Tony says, an air of finality in his voice. “Now I know why you never got laid.”

“I used to want it all the time.” he closes his eyes, remembers the cold showers, remembers holding himself back, sneaking glances. And his body responds almost the same now, but his mind isn’t as into it as he’d expected to be. He’s been telling himself it’s because he’s grown up, because he’s valuing other things more, but looking at Tony’s face now he knows for certain that’s not it. “Maybe the ice... did something.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, condescending. “The ice... _did something_.”

Steve shrugs, bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m not a scientist. I’m just saying I’m different now.”

“Different as in you don’t want to have sex with me?”

“You’re the only person I’d want to do it with.”

Tony sighs. “Great. Fucking... great.”

“I’ll be more into it,” Steve says. “I didn’t mean to make you unhappy.”

“No. Don’t do that.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“Uh, Actually be into me.”

Steve shakes his head. “Forget I said anything.”

“Do you want more romance? Is that it?”

Steve’s torn between two truthful answers, and the thousand snarky replies that float around his head, refusing to take a useable form. “I don’t think that would change anything.”

“Let’s try it,” Tony says. “How do you feel about Paris?”

“What?”

“For dinner.”

He knows Tony’s just baiting him, setting him up for — well, he doesn’t know, but it’s something.

“You said you wanted space,” he says, instead. “I’ll give you some space. Just a few days. Time to think.”

Tony’s silent a moment, and then he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s a good idea.”

Steve sits silent for a moment, waiting for that moment when the hostility has turned entirely into weariness. Tony seems to notice, seems to want the same thing, because he doesn’t say anything either.

“I’ll call you later,” Steve says, eventually and he means that. No reason they can’t talk.

“I love you,” Tony says, begrudging, an offering of peace.

And it’s not the greatest of situations, but Steve gets the chance to say something he’s been waiting forever to say: “I love you too.”


	12. Chapter 12

The break lasts until Wednesday morning, when Tony wakes him up with a video call.

“Fuck space,” he says. He looks immaculate, as always. He’s standing in his lab, backlit by the wall of Iron Man suits. “I want you around.”

Steve grimaces, screws his eyes shut. “What time is it?”

“Uh...” Tony looks behind him. “About 4:26.”

Steve grimaces again. “Did you sleep?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Totally. Wanna get breakfast?”

“Now?”

“Or whenever. You can sleep more.”

“No,” Steve says, stifling a yawn, running a hand across his bare chest. “I’m up.”

“You’re not wearing the pajamas I got you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tony says, looking him up and down and biting his lip in an almost predatory way. “I like this better. Angle the phone down a little?”

Steve just smiles, arm coming up to cover his pecs.

“Ugh, fine. So, you’ll be over soon?”

Steve nods. “I need to shower first.”

“Ooh. Take me with you.”

Steve grins, unsurprised. A little surprised. “You’re telling me to take a phone into the shower?”

“Fine,” Tony says, sighing theatrically. “I guess I’ll have to come over there and hold it for you.”

“Goodbye, Tony.”

“Wait. Really, why don’t I just come over there?”

“What?”

“I’m all ready. You shower, I’ll show up.” He smirks. “Who knows, if I take the suit maybe I can catch you in the shower.”

“No. Your place is bigger.” And there’s no way he’s going to let Iron Man show up on his doorstep.

Tony dismisses that with a little puff of air through his lips. “We’re eating breakfast. I think I’ll fit.”

“Tony, it’s 4 in the morning. I have neighbors. I’ll see you soon.”

He hangs up. Shakes his head, and then he smiles, a relieved grin that stretches what feels like ear to ear. It’s been a day and a half. They’ve much longer without talking before, just by coincidence. A day and a half is nothing.

He’s relieved anyway.

He’s ignoring that little, awful part of him that kept saying that maybe it’d be easier, if Tony didn’t want him around anymore. That he wouldn’t have to feel guilty, he wouldn’t have to feel lost, he wouldn’t have to worry.

He’s ignoring that little part of him because it doesn’t know anything. He wants Tony. He doesn’t care if it’s hard.

****

Of course, in person, when Tony’s with him it’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

He finds him in his lab, of course, watching simulations of his suit, of course.

He wraps his arms under Tony’s arms and across his chest, rests his chin on Tony’s shoulder. “This again?”

He’s not sure if he’s expecting an answer, but Tony offers one anyway, his hands sliding up along Steve’s forearms. “ _This_ happens to be the most important thing I do.”

“Really?” Steve asks, hiding his smile behind Tony’s shoulder blade. “I thought _I_ was.”

He can see Tony’s grin in the reflection on the monitor, and that, more than anything makes him feel like everything’s okay.

“Is this what you do all the time,” he says, nuzzling against Tony’s neck. “Obsess over the suit?”

“I’m not obsessing,”

“Mhmm.”

Tony leans back warm and stable against him, his lips finding the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Well,” he says, still typing with one hand, “You gonna distract me, or what?”

Steve grins, flicks his tongue at Tony’s ear and then he lifts him easily off of the stool, practically dragging him away from the computer, ignoring his half-hearted protests about schematics and rendering and flux capacitors.

They end up on the couch, Tony on top, stretched out across him kissing him first on the mouth and then on the neck, in all of the places that he knows Steve is particularly sensitive, leaving him laughing and squirming. Leaving him with no recourse but his fingers, and Steve makes use of them, trails them lightly, so lightly along Tony’s obliques that he can feel him shiver, and then he tickles him, in retribution, because he’s not going to be the only one trying to decide if what he’s feeling is pleasure or pain.

Tony gives in first, rolls off of him, grins. “You don’t fight fair,” he says, biting his lower lip. “I like that.”

Steve smiles but when Tony doesn’t push him any further he just yawns, stretches. “I was lured here under the pretense that there would be food,” he says, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking that Tony could kiss him, could want him without _wanting_ him, because that seems to be the wrong thing to say.

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say. He’s not stupid.

But Tony takes it in stride, pretends to think about it. “Well,” he says, a little serious frown on his face, eyes in their upper right corners, “I guess I could do that.”

Steve nods.

“You just sit here and look pretty, I’ll take care of everything, sweetie,” Tony says. “Jarvis, surprise me. And triple the usual order. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m a bad provider.”

And then he’s sitting down again, claiming a space in Steve’s lap, his butt on Steve’s leg and his back against the armrest and his arm draped over Steve’s shoulder. “So, where were we?”

Steve doesn’t want to turn him down. He hesitates.

“Not starting anything, then,” Tony sighs, and from how quickly he gives up Steve can tell he was expecting this. An upside of talking, maybe. Tony’s energy seems to deplete, and he lays his head against Steve’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tony says. “Probably don’t have time anyway.”

Steve runs a hand through Tony’s hair. It feels nice. Everything about him feels nice.

And then Tony clears his throat. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Steve says, the word jumping from his mouth automatically. “Just because —”

“No,” Tony says, and it’s a quiet word but it steamrolls over Steve’s protests nonetheless. “I didn’t mean it that way. Just, in general. Are you?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “Of course.”

And then, in the silence that follows, “why do you ask?”

“Well, I don’t see you making conversation.”

Steve snorts. There’s no need for conversation. Even Tony acknowledges that, sometimes, on these late nights or early mornings. That just being together is enough.

Tony shifts. “Why don’t you ever sit on my lap?”

That’s even more ridiculous. He’s not made for that, not anymore. He doesn’t even think he’d mind it, if things had turned out differently. “I’d crush you,” he says, brushing one finger along Tony’s cheek like he’s some delicate possession.

“You’ve got like fifty pounds on me,” Tony says. “Maybe. That’s nothing.”

“And a couple inches.”

Tony smirks. “Well, that’s not true.”

That takes him a second, and when it strikes him somehow it’s funnier than it should be. And he grins, showing his dissatisfaction with a playful slap to Tony’s left shoulder. “I was talking about height.”

“Hmm,” Tony says, the vibrations traveling between them. “So you’d sit on my lap if I wore high heels?”

Yes. Because that’s the problem. “I’m not going to crush you.”

“Right,” Tony says. “Exactly.”

“No — I mean, I won’t do it.”

“Spoilsport.”

He stands up, takes Steve’s hand, pulling, insistent but ineffective. “Up.”

“No.”

“C’mon. You’re not gonna crush me.”

“You don’t know that.”

Tony snorts. “Even if you do, it wouldn’t make the top ten of stupidest things I’ve done. C’mon.”

So Steve gets up too, shaking his head, and then he carefully, gently balances himself on Tony’s lap. It feels good. Comfortable.

Tony pulls him back, tries to make him relax, but Steve can’t, yet. “Are you sure this is okay?”

And Tony, he’s silent a moment, and then he makes this awful, strangled noise. “Hfujhgh — can’t — breathe —”

Steve jumps up like he’s been stung, already feeling the flush in his cheeks, and he turns around, an apology already forming on his lips.

And sees Tony grinning like a madman. “Gotcha.”

That’s not funny. He frowns. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, lighten up,” Tony says, stupid grin still on his face. “I’m hilarious. C’mon. Sit down.”

Steve sighs and makes a show of sitting next to him, leaving a little breathing room.

“Really?”

Steve shrugs.

Tony pulls him against his chest. “God, remind me not to joke around you.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, he just lets Tony rub his back until Jarvis announces that the food has arrived, and he lets himself think it feels good because he’s tired and has just been embarrassed and not because he simply craves comfort now.

Breakfast is omelettes and pancakes and french toast and bacon and fruit and Steve takes one look at it and shakes his head. “Even I couldn’t eat that much.”

“Relax,” Tony says, spreading the styrofoam containers out on the kitchen table. “It all microwaves fine.”

It’s a reasonable statement. Steve’s surprised. “You eat leftovers?”

“Well, no. Happy does.”

“I hope you don’t let this go to waste.”

“Course not. Everyone knows there are starving kids in Africa.”

Steve cuts off a piece of pancake. “Starving kids in America, too.”

“And you’re doing a lot to fix that,” Tony says, like it’s just a reflex, and then he looks at Steve and seems to realize how it sounds. “I mean, fuck, you know I didn’t mean that.”

Steve shrugs. He knows he can’t do anything about it, can’t do anything about any of the injustices he’s seeing, but god, he wants to, he’s going to. He’s gonna make this SHIELD job work out. He’s gonna get back where he was, gonna work on it. Just that simple act of taking the job, it’s given him hope. He’s doing something.

He’s staring into his food as he thinks this and maybe that’s why Tony thinks he’s upset.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Steve looks up, surprised.

“I mean, about that whole ‘not trusting you’ thing the other day. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Oh. Steve wasn’t expecting to talk about that, and he definitely wasn’t expecting an apology. “It’s okay,” he says, shrugging a little. “I should’ve talked to you first.”

“Ehh, probably not,” Tony says, offering a little smile, and Steve smiles too, just enough to return the sentiment, just enough to tell Tony it’s fine, it’s behind them.

“You’re pretty great,” Tony adds. “You know that, right?”

That’s a stupid thing to say, he thinks, as the smile on his face broadens of its own accord. “I love you too.”

“For the record, I wasn’t fishing for that,” Tony says, smirking, and for a moment everything’s okay.

So then, of course, Bruce shows up.

Steve’s in mid bite when he does, he shovels some pancakes in his mouth and looks up and there he is in the doorway, looking at them. That’s not the main thing he’s doing, of course, the main thing he’s doing is walking into the kitchen, but his eyes are on them, and that’s what Steve notices.

He’s disheveled and tired, and he blinks, twice, and then gestures behind him, in an aimless sort of way. “Morning,” he says, yawning. “I’m not uh, interrupting, or —”

“Not at all,” Tony says, and clearly Steve’s hand hasn’t actually begun vibrating, it just feels like that, or clearly Tony would have noticed. “Join us. We’ve got tons of food.”

Bruce runs a hand through his hair and smiles, distracted. And then he points to the refrigerator. “I’m gonna — juice.”

When Bruce turns his back Steve gently disentangles his fingers from Tony’s, ignoring the reproachful raised eyebrow he gets in return.

He holds his breath, waits for Tony to say something. To try and embarrass him. He doesn’t.

Bruce doesn’t say anything, and Steve didn’t expect him to. He doesn’t know what he expected. There’s nothing wrong with — well, it’s one thing to talk about Tony, it’s another to have him there, with Bruce knowing that they’ve had sex. That’s all. That’s his only issue.

Why is it easier to talk about when just being here doesn’t even take effort?

He shrugs it off and drowns his feelings in maple syrup, and at some point in the easy conversation his appetite returns.

He’s starting on his second helping when Jarvis interrupts them with the time.

“Mm, fuck,” Tony says. “I’m late. Bruce, nice seeing you. Steve, if you’re chewing something I’d suggest swallowing it.”

He does reflexively, not fully comprehending until Tony leans across the table, grabs him by the shirt, and kisses him. It’s not chaste, it’s not appropriate, not with Bruce a few feet away. Plus, he tastes like eggs.

“See ya,” he says, with a wink, and then he’s gone.

And Steve fakes a smile and sneaks a glance at Bruce and tries to ignore that sucking pit in his stomach. He’s on edge. He shouldn’t be.

It’s okay now. He knows that.

But — even in front of Bruce, who’s kind and understanding, it’s not that easy.

“So,” Bruce says. “Tony tells me you’re working for SHIELD?”

Steve finishes his orange juice, and then he registers that. “Hmm?”

“You’re working for SHIELD now?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Next week.”

Bruce nods. He seems comfortable, maybe a little tired, but not at all put off by Tony’s affection.

Steve excuses himself anyway. It’s not that he doesn’t like Bruce. He does. But he doesn’t want to talk about SHIELD, and he really doesn’t want to talk about Tony.

He just wants to go somewhere comfortable, familiar, and unwind.

So he goes the only place that really feels like a home to him anymore, the only place where he has anyone he can think of as family.

****

When he gets there, Theresa’s already in Peggy’s room, working on a puzzle and chatting. And she offers to leave, but Steve’s tempted but ultimately he wants her to stay.

With Theresa around, they always talk about the century Steve likes better.

“So,” Theresa’s saying, “I was reading this cool article about formal pictures — because, you know there are all these old pictures of two guys being really familiar, and lots of people think that’s because they’re gay — and it said that basically guys used to be friendly the way girls are, you know, like touching and kinda posing almost romantically, but that stopped because they didn’t want people to think they were gay.”

She pauses a second, then adds, “that’s kinda sad, you know?”

Peggy nods, holding one of the puzzle pieces up to the light like it’ll give her clues. “Where’d you find that?”

“Internet,” Theresa says.

“Why were you looking for —” gay people, Steve thinks.

She laughs. “I wasn’t looking for it. It just showed up on Tumblr. You do go on the internet, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Mostly wikipedia.” And whatever Tony shows him.

“Well,” she says. “You’re missing out then. You gotta go on Tumblr or Reddit. I mean, they’re awful, so don’t, but that way you get to hear about cool things without searching for them.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Or, you know what, just give me your e-mail address. I can send you things I think you’d like.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have an e-mail?” She seems shocked, like everybody has an e-mail these days. “I mean, _everybody_ has an e-mail. Or two. Or three.”

“Even I have an e-mail,” Peggy says.

Steve shrugs. “Well, I don’t.”

“And that’s fine,” Peggy says, patting his leg, and Theresa bites back a laugh.

“So, you were, saying?”

“Oh,” Theresa says. “Right. So, I was just wondering, like, what was it like for you?”

“What was what like?”

“I mean, were you really close with your friends like that? Were you afraid people would think you were gay if you were?”

“Me and Bucky, we were — pretty close,” Steve says, and this might be the first time he’s mentioned Bucky to someone who isn’t Peggy. “That’s just how it was. Not everyone, but, lots of people.”

“How close?”

“I loved him,” Steve says, tongue sliding across his lower lip.

There’s a silence, and he feels the need to keep going. “More than anyone,” he says. “It’s different, when it’s just a friend.”

Theresa frowns.

“You know they don’t want anything else. That if they didn’t like the person you are they wouldn’t be there, and that’s all that matters. Who you are.”

“What else is there?”

“What you look like,” Steve says, and Peggy pointedly rolls her eyes.

“No, he’s got a point,” Theresa says. “I feel like if you suddenly got ugly, that’d ruin any relationship.”

Peggy shakes her head. “If it’s true love it’ll last. When you really love someone it’s not how they look that makes them beautiful, it’s how they are.”

And Steve knows that’s true, that’s how he feels about her. But sometimes he wonders if that’s really how it is, if maybe sometimes how you look overshadows how you are, even for the people who should know the difference.

“That’s deep,” Theresa says, gazing into the distance for a moment, and then suddenly snapping back. “So, did you have to worry about other people thinking you were gay?”

“No, it wasn’t like that.” He smiles, shakes his head. “I mean, Bucky always had some girl hanging around. He was good with ‘em, real popular.”

Peggy smiles. “Well, he thought so.”

“He was,” Steve insists. “He was a real smooth talker. Girls loved him. Not me so much.”

Peggy snorts. “Not like you gave them much of a chance.”

“I did.”

“Oh, so now you’re changing your story,” Peggy says, smiling, a little teasing note in her voice. “I thought you said I was the first woman worthy of your attention.”

He blushes. It’s true, but the way she says it isn’t. Everyone was worthy of his attention. Just no one set him off guard the way Peggy did. “So, to answer your question —”

Peggy swats him on the back of the head. “Changing topics, are we?”

“Just trying to answer a question.”

“Oh, don’t avoid the topic just because of me,” Theresa says, giving him a little innocent smile.

And Steve casts her an amused, exasperated look, but Peggy’s the one to give in first.

“Well, it just wasn’t something you thought of back then,” she says. “Not how it is now. Now everyone wants to know who you like to fuck before they even meet you.”

Steve turns to look at her, because, that phrasing —

Peggy raises an eyebrow. “Do you disagree?”

“You could tell,” Steve says, choosing to ignore the second half. “Sometimes. When a guy wasn’t right.”

He sees Theresa’s expression. “I mean, queer.”

That doesn’t seem to work either.

“We weren’t all looking over our shoulders all the time,” he says. “It wasn’t like that.”

It was a little like that, sometimes, but only for him, not for Bucky. He just can’t tell Theresa that. It’s admitting that he is queer, because why else would you worry?

“I never thought that way,” Peggy says. “Ever. When I met you, even before the serum, I would never have thought —” and then she seems to realize, looks at Steve wide-eyed, and his nostrils flare, he starts feeling a little off, and he’s just glad she doesn’t apologize, doesn’t call more attention to it.

Theresa catches that anyway, maybe catches the reactions more than the words, looks at him, says, “so, wait, you’re…”

“Bi,” he says, because there’s nothing better to do than shrug this off, pretend he’s fine saything that.

She’s silent a moment, as though wondering how to proceed. And then she shrugs. “I think everyone’s everyone’s at least a little bi.”

“Well, I agree with that,” Peggy says, a strange smile on her face, and it takes Steve a second and then he gapes at her, certain she can’t be saying what he thinks she is.

Peggy grins. “You don’t think I’ve told you everything about my life, do you?”

No, but –. Well. Maybe. A little bit.

She seems awfully pleased with herself. “An old lady has to have _some_ secrets.”

Theresa leans forward. “How far have you gone?”

Steve looks at her in horror, but Peggy just laughs.

“Not as far as I would have liked,” she says. “There was the war, and then I met my husband, and, well, I’d already lost Steve, so I knew I couldn’t chance losing him.”

Theresa sighs. “You should write a book,” she says. “You should write ten books.”

Peggy shakes her head. “Oh, no one wants to read about me.”

“You should,” Steve says, and this is an old refrain but he doesn’t mind pushing it because of the way she smiles when they do.

She smiling like that right now, but she shakes her head and picks up a puzzle piece. “I wonder where this one goes.”

“Well, one of these days I’ll persuade you,” Theresa says. She nudges Steve. “You could write it, right? I’m sure you know all the good stories.”

“I’m no writer,” he says. “I could illustrate it, though.”

“Ooh, yes,” Theresa says, getting excited. “We could have a whole childrens’ series, The Adventures of Peggy Carter. And — can there be a female love interest? I want there to be a female love interest. At least in some of them. And Steve, you can be in it, I mean, if you want. It’s not classified, right? The government won’t come after us?”

Peggy smiles. “No, I shouldn’t think so. But _I_ might.”

“Well, that’s why you’ll have to help me,” Theresa says, and then to Steve, “I really want to do this. Let’s do this. You’ll illustrate it all? You promise?”

Steve’s not sure what to say, but it doesn’t matter, because Theresa’s work phone goes off at that moment. “I’m in 31,” she says, and then, “Sure, I’ll be right there.”

“We can start storyboarding next week,” she says, hopping up. “This is exciting. I’ll call you so we can discuss.”

She pauses by the door, turns back to look at Steve, “oh, and get an e-mail address, okay?”

“She’s nice,” Peggy says, and Steve nods.

“I’m so sorry for outing you, darling,” she adds.

He curls up next to her, lets her run her fingers through his hair. “It’s fine.”

She smiles. “It is, you know.”

“Mhmm.”

“I’m glad you have Tony.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. He is glad, he would never give him up, but –

“You never told me you were bi.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she says. “I had my fun.”

He thinks about her, kissing girls, back then, back when it wasn’t okay. And to think of her having fun doing it.

It is fun, though, he thinks, it’s fun kissing Tony, and it’s exciting or arousing or comfortable depending on the situation, but it’s been terrifying too, once or twice, when he thinks too hard about what he’s doing.

And he just got to wake up and suddenly it was okay and he doesn’t even have as much courage as she did back then, can’t even imagine letting everyone know.

And when Theresa mentioned a female love interest his first thought was that it wasn’t appropriate for children. To see that. And his next thought was that it can’t be inappropriate because it’s just love but still, that was his first thought.

“It matters,” he says. “It must have taken a lot of courage.”

“I wouldn’t say courage,” Peggy says. “A disregard for what’s expected, rather. I’ve always been that way. As have you.”

“Maybe,” Steve says, and then he sits up, because he doesn’t want to give her the wrong impression. Doesn’t want her to think he’s weak.

They continue working on the puzzle, mostly in silence. His phone buzzes. It’s from Tony. “Dinner with Pepper tonight?”

“No thank you,” he types. The last thing he needs is another person watching as Tony gets too familiar.

Another buzz. “I’ll also be there.”

“I figured.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t like me again? :(“

“That’s not gonna work on me.”

He puts the phone down, determined not to give in to Tony’s needling.

He’s expecting Tony to argue with him, but when he picks the phone back up a half hour later there are only two messages.

The first: “come over after?”

And the second, ten minutes later: “I sleep better when you’re here.”

Peggy nudges him. “What are you so excited about?”

He looks up, realizes that he’s smiling. “Just Tony,” he says.

“You’ve been a lot happier since you got together,” she says. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

He shrugs, smiles. Maybe he has.

****

He’s almost asleep, the sheets cool against his sides, Tony warm against his chest. He’s on the very edge of dreaming, and then Tony whispers. “Steve? Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” he says, not opening his eyes, not sure if he could.

“Do you mind if I jack off? I'll be quiet.”

That opens them. “What?”

“Um, beat off, or, spank the monkey, or what’d they call it in your day, like, what, charleston the… uh… thunderbird?”

“No one has ever said that.”

“Hmm,” Tony says. “Their loss.”

Steve shifts onto one elbow, feeling sluggish, like he’s not comprehending something. “I mean, why?”

“Because being around you… uh, does things to me. I probably shouldn’t get into it, very personal, a little inappropriate, I –”

“Do you want me to –”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter. I didn’t ask if you wanted to do anything.”

“But –”

Tony sighs. “You’re going to sleep. And I’m going to jack off here, or somewhere else. Simple as that.”

“But –”

“If you wanted to fuck, we’d have done that already. Okay? This isn’t some big thing. I just need to get off before I can sleep.”

Steve can’t help feeling like this is bad, that he should be a better boyfriend. But he’s tired, and Tony’s insistent, and the thought of doing anything other than laying here and falling asleep makes him want to sleep even more.

“Do it here,” he says, shifting to get comfortable again. Wondering what he’s supposed to do. If he’s supposed to roll over. He doesn’t.

“Great,” Tony says, squeezing his hand. “I’ll be quiet. Just go to sleep.”

He nods, not expecting that to be easy. But when his head hits the pillow and his eyes close he finds himself back in that warm, comfortable place that he already was. And whether it makes him a bad person or not, the last things he hears as he falls asleep are the rhythmic sounds of Tony’s ragged breath and the wet slide of his hand.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> -possibly uncomfortable sexual content/sex for bad reasons (more info on end of chapter notes if you want it)  
> -discussion of depression  
> -poor handling of mental health (really just a warning for here on out, at least for a couple chapters or so)

He wakes up alone, of course. Rolls into the spot where Tony had been, but it’s just as cold as the rest of the bed. He’s been gone for a while. 

He gets up, stretches, meanders toward the computer. Tony’s got him trained now, he gets up and he checks the internet. He’s like a real modern day man.

He sits down and jiggles the mouse and braces himself for porn, or another one of those mazes where something pops out at you. He didn't appreciate that one at all. 

He's expecting something fun, most of them are. But when the screen comes to life, he’s looking at a text heavy page entitled “Are you Depressed?”

For a brief, tiny second he thinks Tony left it there as a mistake, that he was looking for himself. For a brief little second he tries to shake it off but it’s no use. He tries to imagine Tony feeling that way and he can’t. Angry, maybe, but not… sad.

It shouldn’t make him uncomfortable, shouldn’t make his brain buzz with a sick sort of anxiety, this one little line of text, but it does.

The background is yellow. Why would anyone make the background yellow?

He tries to close the browser, and a little dialogue box pops up. “Don’t do that.”

He tries to change tabs, and gets “just read it.”

He could just get up, of course. But he’s fairly certain that if he does that, he’ll get a lecture from Jarvis.

And he’s sure he’s not depressed, completely sure, so there’s no harm in reading it.

Yellow background? Really?

He takes a deep breath. He’s not depressed. He’s upset sometimes, sure. Anyone would be if they went through what he did. If they woke up and the world didn’t need them anymore.

He reads, barely comprehending. There are little notes in the margins, most of them on topic. Most of the writing’s on the list of symptoms. Mostly simple things like “yes” or “maybe” or “not this one,” but Tony’s also underlined ‘irritable’ three times and then put a check mark next to it.

Next to ‘feelings of worthlessness’ he’s written, “I’m Steve Rogers, I’m competent and caring and no one would ever love me if it wasn’t for my magnificent ass.”

So much for this not being directed at him.

His ass isn’t that great.

There’s another note next to “loss of interest in favorite activities” – Tony’s scrawled, in his broad, almost childish capitals, “do you even have favorite activities?”

He flicks his eyes over every little note, over the blatant, overenthusiastic underlining of “loss of sex drive,” and thinks he should start at the top again, should actually read everything, but he doesn’t really want to.

Tony doesn’t understand. 

Maybe he used to be depressed, once, was probably definitely depressed before the Battle of New York and then after it, for months, but he’s not anymore. Tony just doesn’t get it, he’s too carefree and composed and put together to get it.

He sighs and looks at the screen and thinks about it, thinks about all of those days he didn’t get out of bed, all of those times that he wished he’d just died when he brought the plane down, the way he was prepared to.

He’d prepared to die, he’d prepared to be with Bucky again and then he’d woken up instead and the world wasn’t the same, and then he wasn’t the same.

He knows he’s still not the same but he’s better now, closer than he was. It’s not noticeable anymore.

Except clearly, it is.

****

He comes back for dinner, against his better judgment, thinking that they’re spending too much time together, they’re spending way too much time together if Tony can see through him like this.

They’re just spending too much time together.

And Tony’s wrong. He’d decided that soon after he left, wishing he’d stayed so that he could refute Tony’s claims one by one. Instead he’d gone to the library, and he hadn’t gotten the same information but he’d gotten some things that were close enough.

Tony’s wrong. That happens. All the time. 

So he comes over a little on edge, a little ready to fight, a little ready to stare him down and tell him in no uncertain terms that he can’t just pass judgment on something he can’t possibly understand.

He just never gets an opening.

It’s like Tony’s just going to pretend Steve never read anything, which is fine, completely fucking fine except he know that’s not how it’s actually going to be.

He bites his tongue and smiles and lets Tony kiss him hello like everything’s fine, and he can tell Tony’s going through the same motions.

They talk about Tony’s day, first, and some inconsequential things, and over time Steve stops being mad and just starts being sad because he likes this, he likes this so much. He doesn’t want it to end.

And then Tony brings up SHIELD, and maybe it’s just to play nice but he doesn’t defend that decision, can’t seem to anymore in his head.

“I’m not gonna quit,” he says instead.

“I know,” Tony says. “I wasn’t asking that.”

Steve looks down at his meal and answers the question. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.”

“You’re shaking your head,” Tony says, with this little, soft smirk. “At least make an effort when you’re lying to me.”

He shrugs. “Fury’s got me on some strategic committee or something.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“I shouldn’t be on any committees. I should be the guy delivering mail.”

Tony fixes him with that exasperated, ‘you’re wrong’ look of his, and Steve gets this feeling, can see Tony circling ‘feelings of worthlessness.’ 

But it’s not worthlessness. It’s just the fact that he needs to work for his success. At least once in his life.

Tony shoves another bite of food in his mouth, talks around it. “You’re a brilliant strategist, though. You decimated me at Risk.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Really. I’m a genius. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. You’re right, I have no idea what I’m talking about.” He pauses, like that’s the end of it, and then says, almost as an afterthought, “Also, I let you win.”

Steve knows that’s bait but he’s not above rising to it. “No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Absolutely did.”

“So let’s play. Don’t let me win this time.”

Tony grins. “Risk is such a boring, spiteful game.”

“Chess?”

“I _will_ beat you at chess.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Probably.”

“I’ll beat you at Mancala, too. And Monopoly. And poker. We should play more games.”

“We should play more Call of Duty.”

Tony smirks. “I actually did let you win that one. You’re a terrible shot. There’s a reason we didn’t play online.”

Tony’s insulting him. That’s good. He’s not treating him like he’s fragile. 

He decides to reroute the conversation. “I just don’t want to be doing something I’m not qualified for.” 

“I know,” Tony says. “That’s why we didn’t play online.”

“I was talking about the job.”

“Oh,” Tony says, grinning. “Yeah, well, you’re qualified.”

“Mhmm.”

“You’ve read every wikipedia article on every war ever. That’s gotta count for something.”

Steve almost chokes. “You said you wouldn’t check the internet history.”

“Like you have anything to hide.” Tony smirks. “Anyway, I didn’t. It’s not hard to extrapolate when I get five texts a day about things that happened forever ago.”

“Oh.”

“You should really use the e-mail I made you. Also, have you heard of MASH? I feel like you would like that. It’s all about how war is hell. It’s a comedy.”

Steve frowns.

“They do it well.”

“No, I —” he shrugs. “The only reason I got this job is because I used to be Captain America. That’s not a qualification.”

“Still are.”

“Pardon me?”

“You said you used to be Captain America. You still are.”

Steve frowns.

Tony rolls his eyes. “God, are we still doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Pretending you’re not Captain America.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s not a thing you just stop being,” Tony says, stuffing food into his mouth as though it’s strengthening his point. “I haven’t used the suit in a while, but that doesn’t mean I’m not Iron Man.”

“You used it yesterday to fly to a convenience store.”

Tony smirks. “So you did see the video.”

“You texted it to me.”

“Well, that’s not the point. Just wait. Next alien attack, you’ll be right back in that tight little spangly number.”

“Alien attacks don’t just happen.”

Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Not anymore, anyway.”

“Agree to disagree,” Tony says. “And I really don’t know why I’m arguing with you. I think we both know you should just quit this job, like you quit being Captain America.”

Steve grits his teeth. He didn’t quit. He just.. isn’t. “I didn’t quit.”

Tony doesn’t seem to hear that “Cap was such a good nickname, you’ve gotta admit that. And you’re not answering to bacon cheeseburger anymore, so I’m really out of options.”

Steve doesn’t answer.

“What if I came up with another reason to call you Cap. Like, uh, what’s got the word ‘cap’ in it? Uhh, capricorn, capricious, copernicus — nope, not that one —”

Perfect. He’s off topic. He’s just gotta ignore him and he’ll eventually stop talking.

“Umm, cap it off, pop a cap in your ass... oh, that’s a good one, because I would like to pop a cap in your ass, metaphorically speaking and all.”

Tony squints at his plate, like this is some very important subject. “No, but that’s no good, because in that case I’m basically calling you jizz, and –”

Ignoring him isn’t working. Ignoring this whole thing is the whole fucking problem. He puts his water glass down maybe a little too hard, voice maybe a little too harsh. “Can we talk about the website you left me?”

Tony looks up, surprised, put off, and then he frowns. “Later.”

“Why not now?”

“Because I – there’s a – look, can we just – later?”

Steve shrugs. “Fine.”

“Do you want some wine? I think you should have some wine. I probably shouldn’t finish two bottles by myself.”

****

He’s not exactly sure how Tony lures him here, how he manages to get Steve to lay down on the bed with him when they’re both fully clothed and not watching TV, how Tony manages to be the one sitting up straight and tall and Steve’s the one to be curled up next to him, head resting on Tony’s chest. More of his shoulder, really, because the prime real estate has been claimed by a battery.

Maybe it’s not that Tony lures him here, into this position, so much as this is what Steve wants, to be held like this, to be passive and comfortable and cared for.

He hasn’t been comforted like this since he was a child. Wouldn’t have allowed it. Shouldn’t need it.

Tony exhales, long and slow. “So you read it.”

"Yeah."

"And?"

“You’re wrong.” It feels good, somehow, to say that.

“Rarely.”

“Pretty often,” Steve says, his lips curling up a little bit in the corners.

“Okay. Pretty often.”

That’s not his line. That’s not how this works. How’s he supposed to distract him if he won’t take the bait?

“Steve?”

“Where’d you even get the idea that –” he cuts himself off, not sure how to finish that. Not sure if he’s okay with finishing it.

“I googled ‘loss of sex drive,’” Tony says, and Steve can hear the hint of a smile in his voice, this odd, prideful lilt that seems to be asking if he can believe how easy it was.

“What?” It’s so far from the answer he’s expecting that he almost laughs. 

“Depression was like the third option, after erectile dysfunction and stress.”

“So you just –” he does laugh, a little harsh, disbelieving.

“Okay, obviously I didn’t just jump to conclusions. Did you even read all of my notes? That took a long time.”

He inhales, long and slow. Yeah, he read ‘em. 

Tony’s silent for a moment, his hand moving absently up and down Steve’s back and Steve wants to get up but he doesn’t want to get up so he doesn’t.

“I hope I’m wrong,” he says, finally. “You can’t really think I’d – look, I love you, and I care about you probably a lot more than you think because I’m not really good at, well, you know. And I’m trying to be a better person and and all that crap and I just really think this is something we should talk about.”

Steve doesn’t say anything.

“I mean, don’t take this the wrong way but you’re kinda not how I’ve heard about you. You know, how I’d expected.”

There’s really not a wrong way to take that.

“Or well, you are,” Tony adds. “Sometimes. A lot of times. There are a lot of things that are great about you. I’m not trying to say that’s not true, obviously. I mean, but then there are a lot of times where I just can’t even imagine how you could ever have led men into –”

He stops, he must stop because he can feel Steve stiffen against him.

“I’m not expressing myself well,” he says. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“Okay.”

“Is that all you’re gonna say?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

“I think you’re doing a great job on your own,” Steve says. “Keep talking and maybe I really will start hating myself.”

He half expects Tony to jump on him for that, but he doesn’t. He just strokes Steve’s hair, looks at him with that tortured, conflicted look he’s so good at.

He doesn’t want to make him feel that way. He doesn’t want to hurt him. 

Tony sighs. “I just want to know what you think. What you actually think.”

He's silent, trying to find words. He can't. He can't imagine letting himself say any of the things Tony wants him to. He can't admit to that sort of weakness. It's bad enough that he's letting Tony hold him like this, bad enough that he never wants him to let go. His concern makes Steve feel terrible and wonderful at the same time.

"Babe?"

He shrugs, snuggling closer to him, drawing Tony's arm tighter around him. 

"I'm not depressed," he finally manages, and it sounds worse on his tongue than it has in his head, all day.

"But you're not very happy," Tony says. "Are you?"

And Steve shrugs again.

"I don't wanna make a big deal out of nothing," Tony says.

“Then don’t.”

Tony sighs, again, and maybe that’s going to be the theme of the night, Tony sighing. And he reaches down for Steve’s hand. “Can we just talk about it?”

"Not much to talk about," Steve says, playing with Tony's fingers because it's a distraction.

They lie there, silent, again, Tony stroking Steve's hair. It pains him to admit how much he likes the feeling. How the attention is mixing with that hollow feeling inside of him, and it's not making him feel full, exactly, but it's making him feel something.

"I'm not going to push you," Tony says, sounding disappointed. "If you don't want to talk right now, that's okay. But you can't just keep pretending everything is fine."

Steve sighs, burying his face in Tony's chest, just inches from the arc reactor, mumbling into it, "Why not?"

Part of him hopes that Tony will realize he's admitting to everything, everything Tony wants him to say that he can't. Most of him doesn't. Most of him hopes they can move on and pretend this never happened.

"Because then you turn out like me," Tony says, his tone light again.

He smiles. His secret’s safe. He doesn’t really feel like smiling, though, he does it out of the expectation of the emotion he thought he’d be feeling, relief, instead of the one he really is which isn’t actually an emotion but just this sad sort of emptiness.

"I know you're not okay," Tony adds, and he's serious again, and Steve's stomach twists into knots. "Even if you won't admit it right now."

“I’m okay,” he says, and the words are supposed to stop there. “I have to be. I – I’m supposed to be perfect.” He’s never said that out loud, he barely lets himself think it but he’s supposed to be perfect, and he’s not. The serum worked, but he’s changed, he’s become weak.

“You’re not supposed to be perfect,” Tony says, and Steve can practically hear his eyes rolling. “Perfect’s boring. I like you better when you’re not.”

He's trying so hard to hold back but the tears come anyway. He doesn't want Tony to be so nice and understanding like this. He doesn't want Tony to pretend that it's okay. If Tony finds out how damaged he is, he'll leave him. He knows that.

He tries to stop, desperately tries to hide his face and hope that Tony won't notice, but that just makes things worse. A sob escapes, and then another, and he feels Tony shift under him in surprise.

"Whoa, hey, you're okay," Tony says, awkwardly patting Steve's head as he sobs into his chest. "I didn't mean to – well, shit, everything's okay. Shh, I got you, just, uh, don't cry."

His discomfort makes Steve feel so much worse, which just makes him cry harder. He should leave, if he can't stop. He should leave because he's a worthless joke of a man and it's bad enough that he's feeling sorry for himself like this, but he has no business dragging Tony into it. Tony shouldn't have to deal with his problems. He should leave, now, but he doesn't.

It's like everything is spilling out of him, all of the pain and loneliness and guilt that's been piling up, but it's not leaving, it's spiraling into more guilt and more loneliness because he's never been so sure he was useless as he is now, curled up against arguably the most intelligent and important man in America, crying like a little kid. Wasting his time. He was supposed to represent his country but he's just a joke and the sooner everyone realizes that, the better.

Tony's hand moves in disjointed circles on his back, like he’s forgotten how to move in the horror of Steve’s breakdown, like he’s just making himself do it because he has to. 

He needs to leave.

He needs to get up and Tony’s body against him is the only thing tying him down and yet it’s too strong to overcome, this contact is too great to break and so he sobs and cries and leaks bitter tears onto Tony’s shirt and tries not to think about what he’s doing.

He has lost and will lose everyone he’s ever loved and how he’d hoped he have Tony, at least, to see him through, but he doesn’t deserve him.

He runs out of tears altogether too quickly, because he’s not done thinking the thoughts that will bring them, but he’s utterly, completely relieved, and he hides his face against Tony’s chest as he catches his breath, tries to hide there forever but he can’t and so he sits up, just a bit, just enough to break contact. Except for Tony’s hand, which is still moving in its little circles on his back.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking at Tony's damp shirt and not at his face.

"Hey, there's nothing to apologize for."

"Got your shirt wet."

"So I'll take it off," Tony says, and he does.

It still feels like all of the attention is on him, and he doesn't want it to be. He wants Tony to focus on something else. And he can't bring it upon himself to look Tony in the face so he kisses him on the chest, slides his hand between Tony's legs.

Tony just sits there, unmoving, and then his hand is on Steve's shoulder.

"Seeing you crying is uh, not exactly a turn on," he says, sounding calm and apologetic and making Steve flush a million shades of red for being stupid enough to let himself break down like that.

He gets up, tries to wade across the ridiculously large bed so he can leave, and Tony catches his wrist.

"Where you going?"

He could break the hold, easily, but he doesn't. "Let me go."

"Never."

He makes it to the top of the stairs, and the fight goes out of him. He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to go back to his empty apartment and be alone. He's always alone. And most of all, he knows that as soon as he walks out that door, it's over. He doesn't want it to be over. So he sits on the stairs, head in his hands, wishing again that he had just died in that plane crash.

It’s probably a full five minutes before Tony comes up behind him, slides strong, solid arms around him, squeezing just enough, and lays his head on Steve's shoulder. "Do you wanna talk about what just happened?"

"No." It comes out shaky and strained, like even saying a single word is too much for him.

So Tony just holds him, rocking him a bit, and Steve does his best not to ruin it by crying.

"So I guess I didn't make you feel any better," Tony says, after they've been there so long that Steve's almost falling asleep in his arms.

"I'm fine."

Tony snorts, and then he apologizes, and it’s the apology that Steve hates, the fact that he feels the need to.

Still, he doesn’t protest when Tony pulls him to his feet and says, like there’s no room for protest anyway, "you’re sleeping here tonight."

****

Tony falls asleep almost immediately, and Steve lies there for a while, thankful for the dead weight of Tony’s body against his. Thankful for the fact that Tony’s asleep, doesn’t have to see him try to keep still, try not to shake.

Tony snores. Steve doesn't mind; in fact, he likes it. It makes him feel secure, and comfortable, this constant, familiar reminder that he's not alone.

He tries to focus on the rhythmic breathing, but he can’t. He's mentally exhausted, it’s the only reason he’s still here, but with what's left of his strength he finds himself stuck in a loop of embarrassment. He wonders why Tony hasn't made him leave.

He almost leaves on his own. In fact, it's not until he wakes up the next morning, alone in the large bed, that he realizes he hasn't.

He goes into the bathroom, staring dully into the mirror. He looks like he hasn't slept in a couple of days. He also looks like he hasn't shaved in two days, which is accurate but still something he should fix.

He splashes some water on his face, watches it drip down into the sink. He'll shave when he gets home. It's bad enough that Tony's talked him into leaving a toothbrush and a change of clothes at his place.

The sound of footsteps makes him jump and he turns around, heart pounding, wondering how he's going to explain this. 

It’s just Tony. He smiles, says “great, you’re up,” and Steve smiles too, like nothing’s different, but it is.

He turns back to the sink, begins to brush his teeth, and Tony comes up behind him, leans up against him, lips pressing to his shoulder. 

“Don’t you have work?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“I don’t think you can do that.”

Tony smiles, running a hand down Steve’s side. “I can do whatever I want.”

Steve smiles too, not quite making eye contact with Tony’s reflection, but glad, anyway, to have him there.

“So, whatcha wanna do?”

Steve knows what that means. 

He know what he wants it to mean, too. And he shakes Tony off, so he can rinse his mouth out. He doesn’t realize how that’s going to seem.

He turns and Tony’s still just inches away but he’s standing quietly, almost uncomfortable, and Steve knows he should say something but all he can do is close his eyes so he doesn’t have to see that look in Tony’s eyes. He puts his hands on Tony’s hips, just above the silk of his boxers, sliding his thumbs slowly over the soft skin of his stomach.

He rests his forehead against Tony’s, eyes still closed, so he can feel him there the way he wants him to be, and before Tony can say anything, because he doesn’t want to hear what Tony has to say, after last night, he might not want to talk to him ever again after last night, he finds his lips, gently, softly, with his own.

Tony immediately wraps his arms around him, pulling him into a crushing hug, and this wasn’t where this was going but he has no choice but to let Tony rest his chin on his shoulder and hold him tight, to feel Tony good and strong and warm against him.

God, he feels good, so good, and Steve’s careful not to hurt him because he knows he could, but he clutches him back like it’s a sin to leave any room between them, like if he doesn’t hold Tony he’s going to fall apart.

But this isn’t what he’s expecting and no matter how good it feels it’s not what he wants and he loosens his hold and backs up, grabs Tony by the chin, hard, and kisses him, harder. He knows it’s not a competition, that there’s nothing he’s going to prove here but that doesn’t matter, it never has.

Tony takes the sudden shift easily, there’s just a moment of hesitation and then he’s kissing back. And he sucks down hard on Steve’s lower lip and clenches a fist in his hair, tugging but not too hard, and makes this deep, guttural noise of assent, his other hand already against Steve’s crotch. 

And he’s not expecting it, not expecting how badly he needs to be pressed against him again but he does, and so he forces Tony backwards, pins him against the wall, hands behind his head to cushion the blow. 

He does it too hard, he knows that. There’s a little gasp as Tony’s body hits and another as Steve grinds against him, but there’s no complaint, nothing that even sounds like complaint and he takes that as an encouragement, he puts his arms on either side of Tony’s head, against the wall, so that he can get closer, can rub against him, can feel the way the steady beating of Tony’s heart is amplified in the metal against his chest.

Steve knows it's not a competition. He knows that.

He pulls back, tugging on the corner of Tony's wet red lower lip with his thumb, savoring the flush in his cheeks. "Where's the lube?"

Tony gapes at him for a second, breathing heavily, before nodding toward the sink. "Top drawer on the left."

He lets go and Tony seems to shrink, a bit, exhaling in what could be relief but in what Steve suspects is pleasure instead, because there’s this smile on his face, this broad smile that makes him feel better, for a second.

He tears himself away, grabs the lube, returning to unceremoniously rip off Tony's boxers and grab both of his wrists in one hand.

"God, I love it when you're like this," Tony whispers, spreading his legs without being asked, struggling a little against Steve’s hold anyway.

Steve pushes into him with two lube-slicked fingers and Tony exhales sharply, like all of the air has been punched from his body.

"Too much?"

"No," Tony pants, "no, you're fine, keep going."

Steve kisses him again, rough, sucking hard and long like he’ll never need to breathe, and Tony clenches and flexes around his fingers, so tight, so good.

He lifts him without warning, up against the wall and Tony’s eyes flash with something and then close, mouth open, back arched, waiting.

He’s gentle, as gentle as he can be, and it’s more a logistical problem than he’d expected to lower Tony onto his cock without dropping him, he can’t hold him with one hand even though he’s so light. There’s a moment of this clumsy, fumbling attempt to get it in but Tony’s patient, even though he’s not helpful, so busy rubbing his ass against Steve’s cock when all he needs to do is hold still and brace himself.

He takes him hard, that’s how this goes, hard and rough and unrefined. He’s in control, he’s absolutely in control it’s just that what he wants to do with that control is lose it, he wants to pound Tony with this reckless abandon, to feel Tony’s ragged breath in his ear and feel Tony’s sweat streaked skin against his.

He wants to let go, it’s everything he knows he shouldn’t do and he wants to, he needs to. 

And every time he starts to feel like he’s going too hard, like he’s doing something wrong Tony gasps, or moans, or grabs Steve by the neck and whispers in his ear, “don’t stop,” and it’s okay, it’s fine, except it’s not.

This is everything Tony wants, everything he’s asked for, all of the spontaneity and roughness and dominance, and if Steve were doing that for him it’d be great. 

But he’s not. He knows that’s not why he’s doing it.

He knows that’s not why he’s doing it, he just doesn’t know why he is.

****

It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make anything better, there’s that moment of passion and then it’s over and Tony’s still looking at him like that, still tip-toeing around him.

“So,” Tony says. “You doin’ anything today?”

It’s the forced lightness, the obvious implication that Steve’s someone to be careful around, to be gentle with. He nods. "I told Peggy I’d visit.”

"Mind if I join?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Right, of course."

They dress in silence.

"Do you wanna get breakfast?"

"I can eat something there."

“How about after?”

“I’m helping Lindsey move.”

“Lindsey?

“From my graphic design class.”

Tony shrugs. “How about dinner?”

“I’m eating there.”

“Okay,” Tony says, sighing, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Well, obviously, I’m starting to sound desperate. So, just call me?”

Steve nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content summary:  
> -Steve tries to initiate sex at an inappropriate time as a way to deflect unwanted emotional attention. Tony shoots him down.  
> -Steve does initiate sex at a somewhat appropriate time, but for emotionally charged reasons. May come across as dubious consent because he's being particularly rough. He doesn't do anything Tony wouldn't want and for the most part has explicitly asked for, but it is also explicitly stated that he's not doing it for that reason
> 
> If this is something you don't wanna read, shoot me an e-mail.


	14. Chapter 14

He doesn’t go to Peggy’s. He doesn’t want company, not even hers. 

He wants to be alone with his thoughts. 

He doesn’t want that either.

He wants to go to sleep for a very long time. 

Instead he just lies in bed and tries to sleep. Tries to close his eyes and erase everything. Tries not to think.

He hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Since way before he and Tony got together. He’s been okay, he’s been better.

He wasn’t lying to Tony, about having things to do. He just doesn’t do them.

He would never let anyone down, of course. But when Lindsey texts to say that her roommate’s friends took care of everything, but he’s still more than welcome to come have dinner with them, he turns her down. She doesn’t need him.

Nobody needs him.

He leaves his apartment to run, feet pounding the pavement, and he wonders if he came down hard enough if he could crack all the way through it. If he ran fast enough, could he outrun himself?

That’s an completely overdramatic thought. He never used to think like that.

What’s wrong with him?

He comes home and heats up some rice for dinner, slathers it in butter and enough mayonnaise to meet his calorie requirements, because he doesn’t exactly feel like going out. 

He doesn’t call Tony. Tony calls him. He picks the phone up with a mouth full of rice, talking through the food. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Tony’s voice is flat and even. Tony’s never like that, he’s always emotional in some way. “You said you’d call me.”

“I was going to.”

“Mhmm. Sure.” He pauses. “I miss you.”

“You can’t miss me yet. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s all booked up. I can pencil you in for 15 minutes from now if that makes any difference.”

Steve smiles, thin. “Never figured you for codependence.”

“Well, _that’s_ the least true thing you’ve ever said. Let’s do something. I’m bored.”

“You’re not bored.”

“What are you talking about? I’m always bored.”

“I’m sure you think you’re being clever.”

“Generally, yes,” Tony says. “It’s less ‘being clever’ and more just ‘clever.’ Witty. Ingenius. The synonyms go on and on.”

Steve sighs. “I know you’re just trying to check up on me.”

“And that’s a bad thing? I told you, I miss you.”

Steve shrugs.

“Babe?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“C’mon, let’s do something. My treat. I’ll pick you up.”

“No thanks.”

“Something small. Like ice cream. Strip club. Your choice.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said no.”

“And I overruled you. Pick something, or I’ll pick for you.”

“You can’t overrule me.”

“Can and did.”

“I’m not some _kid_ , okay? I can take care of myself. All I need you to do is get the hell off my back.”

There’s a long, painful silence on the line, and then Tony’s voice, sounding all the more superior. “That was extremely uncalled for.”

He doesn’t say anything, just squirts some more mayonnaise on his rice. If he has to be depressed, if Tony’s insisting on that, why can’t he just do it alone?

“Okay, well, I’m gonna come pick you up, then, and you can decide what you want to do.”

“I want you to leave me alone.”

“And I don’t want you to kill yourself while I’m asleep.”

He hears that and the world, everything, just stops. His face grows hot, his blood pounding in his ears. Just the thought – he would never –

“Steve?”

“How could you – even think –” he can’t finish it, can’t really imagine finishing that sentence. 

“Don’t act like that’s not a reasonable concern.”

“It isn’t,” Steve says, feeling shaky and unstable, feeling like that’s how Tony expects him to feel, like that’s all he is now. “At all.”

“With the information you’ve given me, which by the way is almost _nothing_ , it is.”

He closes his eyes and lets the feeling of hopelessness fall over him.

“Steve?”

“I would never, ever do that,” he says, and his tone is too harsh and he doesn’t care.

“Good,” Tony says. “That’s good.”

“I shouldn’t have to answer to your… _paranoia_.”

“Okay,” Tony says “Okay, fine, not suicidal, got it.”

“I can’t believe you’d even –”

“Well maybe if you’d fucking talked to me.”

His jaw’s clamped down hard, it’s starting to hurt. He waits, but Tony doesn’t say anything else. He’s not even sure he’s still there. “I’m going to sleep.”

“It’s _eight_ ”

“I’m old.”

“Steve –”

“Tony.”

“You’re not making me any less worried.”

“Because there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Great. Awesome. So you won’t mind sleeping at my place tonight.”

Steve hangs up.

But he picks up, when Tony calls him back seconds later. “Must have gone into a tunnel,” he says, lips twisting into a little smile. 

“I’m coming over.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because –” because he doesn’t want him here. He doesn’t want people to see him here. “Please don’t.”

There’s a very, very long silence, and then Tony sighs. 

And then there’s silence, again.

“... Tony?”

He sighs again. “You promise you won’t do anything?”

“I think I can manage,” Steve says, voice about as tense as he feels.

“Okay.” Tony pauses, like it’s not really okay. Softens. “I love you.”

Steve nods, forgetting for a moment that Tony can’t see him. When he finally says “I love you too,” he wonders if Tony’s wondering, about that pause. He doesn’t explain.

****

Tony backs off, for the weekend, and for two days Steve lives like it’s only him in the world. He goes out on his motorcycle for hours and comes back when it’s dark. He responds to Tony’s texts within a couple hours of receiving them. There’s only so many times he can insist that he’s okay.

He wakes up on Monday and he’s ready to put this all behind him. To be better like he’s telling Tony he is.

He hasn’t really given much thought to how this is going to go, this SHIELD thing. He shows up and it’s just like old times, except this time after taking his clothes off he gets to put some on, and nobody’s poking him with needles and he’s not being asked to run on a treadmill for 12 hours. 

He knows there’s a certain security clearance required to be allowed to talk to him. He doesn’t know what it is. He wonders if he has that clearance.

He’s surprised, not overly, that Natasha’s the one showing him around. Makes sense, given their history.

"Should've signed on as a field agent, Cap," she says, by way of greeting, tilting her head as she sizes him up. "Could use you out there.”

He squares his shoulders. “Don’t actually follow orders that well.”

She smiles, with that little knowing shake of her head. “Then you’d fit in just fine.”

Would he? 

That’s not worth dwelling on. 

“America really needs me, I’ll hear about it.”

“Well,” she says, with a little shrug that makes him think maybe she doesn’t agree. “It’s good to have you back.”

****

The job is pretty simple. He’s going to spend his days reading summarized reports on minor potential threats. All he’s gotta do is develop an opinion and a strategy, present that strategy to a committee, and if it’s approved it goes up the chain.

It’s important, Natasha says. Not something they usually entrust to newbies. But then, Steve’s special.

She walks him through the process and it makes him wonder who thought he couldn’t hear this from someone he doesn’t know.

It’s not that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. It’s just that she has no reason to be involved in this. They’re still treating him like he’s got to be managed. Gotta be watched.

He’s not surprised. He’d just hoped something would change.

“The reports are for your benefit,” Natasha says. “They’re thorough, impartial, and there’s a review process. But you can access any raw data you want with your login. Surveillance photos, search histories, e-mail correspondence, phone logs, you name it we’ve got it.”

Steve swallows. He’s all too aware.

“But to be honest, they’re really only useful for identifying threats.”

“Identifying?”

“Of course,” Natasha says. “By the time it gets to you there’s not much you should need to look up.”

“I see,” Steve says. 

This isn’t new information. Is it? He knew they had access to communications. But, maybe he’d just convinced himself it was justified, in some way. That they only looked at them after they knew something was suspicious.

Why had he thought that?

How do you justify spying on everyone, in the hopes of catching a few wrongdoers?

“Thank you,” he says.

Natasha looks up. “I wasn’t quite done.”

“I can figure it out,” he says. “I’ll ask someone if I have trouble.”

****

He doesn’t have to ask anyone where Fury’s office is. He knows that one by heart.

He waits patiently for Fury to see him, running through what he’s going to say. What Fury’s going to say. He’s said it all before

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t bear repeating.

“I won’t be a part of this,” he says, the minute he walks in, not even waiting for Fury to look up.

Fury’s raises his head, slow and calm, and then he raises his eyebrow.

Clearly, Steve’s being asked to explain himself. He doesn’t.

Fury stares him down, impassive, for probably a minute. And then he seems to decide he’s done waiting. “You have a problem with how I run things.”

“Yes.”

“The world doesn’t live up to your standards, Captain. We need to stay one step ahead.”

“So we work harder,” he says. That doesn’t justify invasions of privacy. 

Fury smiles. “We. Work. Harder. What a concept.”

Steve tightens his jaw. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“Or possible,” Fury says. “The world isn’t how you left it, Captain. Things move much faster these days. It is imperative that we keep up.”

“There’s gotta be a better way.”

“Perhaps there is. But I’m not willing to stand by and lose men and whatever advantage we do have.”

Steve doesn’t respond.

“What did you think had changed from the last time we talked, Captain?”

“I –”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have much better things to do than tell you things you already know.”

“Sir, if you just –”

“I’m done here, Captain. That means you are as well. If you’ve got any more gripes, feel free to direct them to your immediate superiors.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek so the anger won’t show on his face. 

“Oh, and Rogers? If you really want to leave, you’re more than welcome to. You’re an asset, certainly, but don’t think for a second that we can’t get by without you.”

Steve slams the door on his way out.

***

He has dinner at Tony’s. Spends a few minutes venting but it’s clear that Tony doesn’t care.

“And that was… surprising? You really had no idea?”

“Of course I had an idea. That doesn’t make it right.”

Tony frowns down at his food. “Well, I’m just trying to understand what you thought would happen.”

“Does that matter?”

“A little bit, yeah. I mean you were completely, totally aware of all of this when you agreed to take the job, so I’m just not sure why I have to hear about it.”

Of course he wouldn’t understand. “Forget it.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Okay.”

He should have known better than to give Tony another reason to judge him.

“I should go,” he says, but it’s weak. He doesn’t mean it. He wants to stay.

Tony just rolls his eyes, an easy grin settling over his face. “ if you run off every time we argue about something this isn’t going to work out _at all_. I’m sorry, forgive me, sleepover?”

“Sleepover?”

“Yeah, you know, we can talk about boys and paint our nails and when you go to sleep I’ll put your hand in a glass of warm water so you wet the bed?”

“That sounds mildly unpleasant.”

Tony smirks. “Did you have something better in mind?”

“Uh, movie?”

Tony shrugs. “Sounds about right.”

****

He can’t sleep.

Even with Tony snuggled up against him he can’t sleep.

He just lays there. Trying to focus on the long, slow intake of breath. On the long slow exhale. Tries to relax his muscles until he can spontaneously slip into sleep.

He’s been sleeping too much, maybe.

Tony slips out from under his arm at one point, and so he rolls onto his back, and looks up at the ceiling, and waits. 

And waits.

And waits.

And realizes that wherever Tony went, it wasn’t the bathroom.

He should just go to sleep.

****

Tony’s down in his workshop, and as usual he’s a little startled to see Steve, and he frowns at him with his eyes but just with his eyes. “Give up on sleeping?’

“You’re one to talk.”

“I had work to do.”

“I would have left.”

“Great,” Tony says, with a little smile. “So you get why I couldn’t tell you.”

“That’s –”

“Oh, come on. You’re sleeping, I’m sleeping, what does it hurt if I’m not sleeping? You’re welcome to stay. Here, I mean.”

Steve doesn’t answer. He just joins Tony behind the screens, sliding his arms around Tony’s chest. Tony should sleep, but… his is definitely better than sleeping.

He looks at one the diagrams Tony’s got up. Some weird variation on the Iron Man suit. Like someone asked him to do a radical redesign. The colors are different, the texture, the surface, the shape. He’s branching out. It’s odd.

“Can I help?”

“Help?”

“With that suit design.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the design.”

“Mm,” Steve hums, looking it over. “Not too much.”

“There is _nothing_ wrong with my design.”

Steve just smiles, holding him tighter, watching as Tony fiddles with something on the screen.

“Okay, fine, just tell me,” Tony says. “It’s gonna bug me all night if you don’t.”

“Nothing big,” Steve says. “It’s just, see these lines here? I’m not sure the perspective works. And assuming you’re the one wearing this, I think you might want to rework the hips.”

“What’s wrong with the hips? They’re completely normal hips.”

Steve smiles. “Exactly.”

“Are you saying I don’t have normal hips?”

“I dunno,’ he says, running a hand over one of them. “Do you have normal hips?”

“Yes of course I do. You’re thinking of my ass.”

“Oh,” Steve grins. “My bad.”

“It’s very sexy,” Tony adds.

“ _Very_ sexy,” Steve says. “Not gonna fit in that suit, though.”

“Whatever. Jarvis’ll fit it to my body.”

“Shouldn’t that be the first step?”

“I was trying something new,” Tony says. “I mean, probably won’t even make the suit. Just a little side project.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, kinda wasteful. Lots of work to do.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, fine,” Tony grins. “Go redesign the suit.”

****

He winds up on the couch, drifting off as Tony works. He wants to stay awake. He really does. It’s just that it’s late turning into early morning, and he’s tired, and there’s something soothing about listening to Tony work.

“No, Dummy, don’t do that. Go bother Steve.”

He reaches up sleepily, patting the cold metal. “Don’t bother Steve.”

He’s not sure how that works, Dummy being a robot and all, but it does.

He wakes up still on the couch, with Tony sleeping on top of him. He thinks that should be uncomfortable but it’s not, and he smiles, sleepily, wrapping his arms and legs around him, and falls back to sleep.

He wakes up again, looks at his watch, and nearly jumps off of the couch.

Tony opens his eyes sleepily, licks his lip. “Hey, watch it,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “I’m sleeping here.”

“I have to get ready.”

“Call in.” Tony rubs his face sleepily against Steve’s chest. “Tell them you quit.”

“I’m not quitting.”

“I,” Tony says, pausing to yawn, “will pay you a billion dollars to quit.”

“Tony –”

“See, it’s just I’d rather be sleeping on a bed that isn’t trying to get up.”

“Can I use your shower?”

“If you can do it from here.”

“Please?”

“Yes, fuck, of course. You don’t have to ask.”

“Will you get up?”

“Uhnnn.”

“Tony.”

Tony squirms a little. “Mhmm?”

He smiles, pressing his lips to Tony’s head. “I’m getting up now.”

“A billion dollars. Think about it.”

“Don’t make me carry you upstairs with me.”

“Ugh, I’m up, I’m up.” He stands up slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Go. I would hate for you to miss one second with your new friends.”

Steve frowns.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Wow, lighten up,” he says, giving him a quick kiss. “Go shower, I’ll go make you a piece of bread or something.”

“Okay.”

Tony hesitates a second. “Are you okay?”

“I’m just running late.”

“No,” Tony says, this sad, soft look on his face, this look that Steve can’t stand. Never wanted to see again. “I mean –”

“Yes,” Steve says, a hard edge in his voice that wasn’t there a second ago.

He’s _fine._


	15. Chapter 15

He spends the whole day thinking about Peggy. She can tell him how to fix this. He has a million conversations in his head with her, he tells himself all of the things he thinks she will say.

Even then, he knows she’ll say something better.

He feels a little better thinking that she’ll know how to fix things. Everything. How to fix the problems at SHIELD, and his problems with Tony, and his problems with himself.

She fixed him once, she can do it again. 

He tries not to think about how it will feel to admit to her that he’s weak, that for as much as he’s been telling her that he’s happy now, and he’s sleeping more, almost too much, and that he’s dating someone and has a job, and that he has everything that he thought would make him happy, he still isn’t.

He’s not happy.

He’s not depressed. Tony doesn’t know him as well as she does. He’ll tell her Tony thinks that and she’ll laugh, and he’ll laugh, because he was depressed and he knows what that’s like and he’s not anymore.

He’s just not happy.

He’s not sure why. Expectations, maybe. Maybe he fell too hard for Tony and expected him to be perfect. Maybe he’s spent too long trying to think of SHIELD as the good guys.

Maybe because he’s not taking action to fix anything.

He walks into Peggy’s room with the words on his lips but then Theresa is there.

They play cards on Tuesdays. He knows this. He’s usually glad for it, that someone is spending enough time with Peggy.

He’s been so wrapped up in himself maybe he’s forgetting to think about Peggy.

They both look up, and smile at him, and deal him in, and he can’t bring himself to make her leave.

There’s always later.

They’re talking about SHIELD, and Steve would think there was some strange connection except that’s all they ever talk about. Not SHIELD, in particular. Just Peggy’s life. 

“The thing you have to understand about Howard Stark is that he may have been a genius, and very wealthy, but he was still young, and idealistic, and had no idea how to run something with the scope of SHIELD.”

“Which is where you came in,” Steve 

“Oh, I was one of maybe a hundred people,” she says.

“That’s not how Tony tells it.”

Theresa perks up a little at that. But Peggy just rolls her eyes. “Oh, he doesn’t know anything,” she says.

Steve finds himself grinning at that, and Theresa laughs too, and even though he knows they’re not sharing the same joke it seems like the weight is lifting off his shoulders. “He knows some things.”

“Less than he thinks he does,” Peggy says. “He’s wonderful, but –”

“But conceited,” Steve says, light, that same smile playing around his lips.

“I’m not going to bad mouth him to you,” she says, with a sideways glance at Theresa, and a wink. “Or Theresa. I’m much more discreet than that.”

Steve grins. “Just to Theresa, then?”

“Okay,” Theresa says. “So to clarify, we are talking about Tony _Stark_ , right?”

He never does get around to talking to Peggy. It’s not that they don’t get a moment alone. It’s just that he gets so caught up in the fun of being around people, and laughing, that by the time she asks him how he’s doing he brushes her off with an easy “okay,” and doesn’t let her push.

It he can handle this by himself, he should.

****

He meets Tony for drinks and appetizers, “at an actual restaurant,” as Tony had pitched it.

He has fun.

He tells himself he’s having fun, to remind himself to have fun, because Tony had also pitched that part, the part where he has fun. 

He can’t tell if Tony’s having fun, or if he’s too focused on making sure Steve’s having fun.

“This is good,” Steve says, gesturing at the food.

Tony nods.

He’s not sure what to say, beside that. 

He’d expected Tony to reject him when he figured out that he’s not right. That was the worst thing he could think of. 

He’s not sure he likes this any better.

He keeps expecting it to get better, but he can’t help seeing the strain in Tony’s smile, the pause before he speaks, the way his eyes flick up and down Steve’s face, like he’s waiting for the wrong response.

Even when he gets Tony talking about his latest project – because there’s nothing in Steve’s life worth talking about, nothing that won’t make Tony upset, or worse, condescending – it’s not quite the same.

“Come back to my place?”

Steve shakes his head.

“C’mon,” Tony says. “I’m not gonna try anything, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

Steve shrugs. It is, maybe. The fact that Tony’s not trying anything. “You could.”

“Gonna have to be a little more enthusiastic than that, buddy,” Tony says. “It doesn’t bother me, okay? Let’s just watch a movie.”

He wants to say that it bothers him. That Tony should want him more than he does. That it’s been 5 days and usually Tony would be telling him that it’s torture but obviously that doesn’t even bother him anymore.

Does Tony even see him that way anymore? Can he?

“I want you to.”

“Watch a movie?”

Steve glances around, shrugging his shoulders. “Want me.”

Tony snorts. “Of course I want you. You’re the one who asked me to back off.”

That’s a good point. 

“So, we’ll watch a movie,” Tony says. “And then we’ll see where things go.”

“Brokeback Mountain,” Steve says.

“What?”

“I want to watch that,” he says. “I’m tired of all those movies where the guy gets the girl.”

Tony frowns. “Maybe not that one.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just… not… uhh... _happy_.”

Steve waits, but he doesn’t go on. “Not _happy_.”

“Yeah.”

He waits, and Tony’s face makes this very slight, almost apologetic movement. “I don’t think you’d want to watch it.”

He waits, and Tony shrugs. “ _I_ don’t want to watch it.”

Steve sighs. “You know what? I think I’d rather be alone tonight.”

****

He’s barely even home when he gets a text message from Tony, and it’s just a couple of links. He clicks one, sees “Coping with Depression,” and doesn’t even bother with the others.

He calls Tony. “I said I wanted to be alone.”

He can imagine Tony’s lip rising in disdain. “Do is it look like I’m anywhere near you right now?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Okay, mutey mcmute face. You’re the one who called me.”

“Because you’re not leaving me alone.”

“So ignore me. That’s the beauty of texting.”

“How am I supposed to ignore you when you’re giving me reading assignments?”

“They were articles I thought you might find interesting. That’s it.”

“I’m not depressed,” Steve says, feeling entirely like he’s lying. “I told you, I can’t be. The serum fixed all that.”

Tony laughs, soft and low. “Dunno how to tell you this, babe, but there have been massive improvements in medical science since then.”

Steve knows he can’t blame this on the serum. He was told, over and over, that the serum wouldn’t change who he is. 

Whatever it is that Tony’s seeing in him, whatever Tony doesn’t like about him, that’s his own fault. His own failing.

*****

He knows he’s being distant. He claims that it’s because he’s tired, from work, and Tony very verbally and emphatically doesn’t buy that. 

So that’s how he winds up at Tony’s place, two days later, listening to another lecture about how he’s messed up. Sick.

"Look, I've read a little bit of your file. You probably got bullied a lot when you were little, didn't you?"

Steve flinches at the term. It sounds so demeaning. He was small, yes, but there's got to be a better way to express that.

For once, Tony seems to notice. "Sorry, I meant young."

Steve shrugs. "I could stand up for myself."

"Really."

He looks away. "Bucky would step in, usually, but I didn't need him to. I could've taken it."

"Well yeah, of course you could, but most people don't have to."

Steve shrugs. "So?"

"So maybe you're so obsessed with standing up for yourself that you don't realize that it's okay not to."

He cocks his head. “What’s your point?”

“I did my research, okay? You’re supposed to to talk to me. I mean, I get it, who in their right mind would pick me to confide in but still, you’re supposed to.”

Steve shrugs. “Okay.”

“So you’ll do that then.”

“I’m strong enough to handle things myself.”

Tony frowns. "See, that’s what I’m saying. It's not about strength, babe, especially if you're actually depressed – which yeah, okay, you said you're not and I don't want to make you angry all over again but I don't exactly trust your self assessment of that."

"Is there a point to this?" 

"Yeah. You're shutting me out because – I dunno why, because you think it's weak to show emotions or you can't stand feeling out of control or you think I won't like you if you're not the perfect embodiment of masculinity and the american way all the time, but whatever it is it's stupid and you need to stop it."

****

It feels like he’s discovering this idea that Tony might not be right for him.

That’s not exactly the right term. What he is discovering is that things aren’t the same. It doesn’t feel right anymore between them, and he has to try, too hard, to pretend that it does.

This new idea, the one that Tony’s not right for him, that’s the reasoned conclusion.

He hears Peggy’s voice in his head. “Tony’s not as smart as he thinks he is.” And while he knows that when she said it her voice had been full of amusement and affection, now he hears it differently. He hears it as a criticism.

He hears it as his own criticism.

He thinks about talking to her about it. Decides against it. He stops by and sees her every time he’s not at work or with Tony, and he never talks to her about anything useful, but it feels good, he feels comfortable.

He doesn’t feel that way with Tony anymore.

He was so sure he was in love with Tony. He knows that he was. That’s undeniable. 

But he’s not feeling that right now

He’s not feeling bad, either. He’s just feeling calm. Emotionless.

That means he’s right.

****

Tony calls Saturday night, doesn’t even say hello. “I want to see you,” Tony says. “In person.”

Steve swallows. He’s made a decision. He just doesn’t want to do it tonight.

“How about tomorrow? Lunch.”

“How about now?”

“I’m busy right now.”

“I’m busy tomorrow. You’re sitting on your bed doing nothing.”

“I don’t sit on my bed.”

“So you’re at the table. Or something, I don’t know, I’ve never seen you apartment. Let’s skip the semantics. Did I do something? Are you mad at me?”

No. He’s not.

“You owe me,” Tony says.

“How do you figure?”

“Last time this happened I didn’t make you come out.”

Steve frowns. “So if you respect my decision once, you get a pass?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I had a shitty day. I just want to see you. Why the fuck is that an issue?”

“I –” Steve pauses. It’s not going to kill him to pretend for one night that things are okay. “Okay.”

“You hungry? There’s this new place I’ve been wanting to try.”

“It's late. Let's go somewhere casual,” Steve says.

“Like what, 7-11?”

“There’s a McDonalds by my apartment."

Tony laughs, and then stops. "Oh, you're serious, aren't you?"

Steve nods. "See you in 20 minutes.”

****

Tony’s sitting in the back, in the corner, facing the wall, the remains of a large fry in front of him. He offers some to Steve as he sits down.

“No thanks,” he says, as his stomach growls. “I already ate.”

“C’mon. It’s terrible for you.”

Steve squares his shoulders. “So what’d you wanna talk about?”

Tony shrugs. “Nothing. It’s… whatever.” He looks down, picks at some fries. “I, uh, just wanted to see you.”

He looks around to make sure no one’s watching, and then he reaches across the table, sliding his hand into Steve’s.

“Can we, please, go back to your place? There are things I don’t really want to discuss here.”

For one second, he wonders if Tony’s decided the same thing he has.

“Y’know, uh, stupid important emotional stuff,” Tony adds, and that idea is gone.

It’s painful watching him do this. He wonders if Tony thinks he’s being subtle, right now. “If you have something to say, say it.”

Tony blinks. “Uh, I love you?”

Steve already knows there’s nobody in earshot but that doesn’t stop him from looking around. “About me.”

“Uh, I thought you loved me?”

“I do,” he says. “That’s not –”

“So then why do I feel like you’re here against your will?”

Steve crosses his arms. “I am.”

Tony sighs. “Right,” he says, the word sharp on an exhale. He tips over the fries, throwing the last crumbs into his mouth. “Well, I’m done eating, so feel free to leave.”

So he does.

“Okay, never mind, sit the fuck back down.”

He doesn’t. He just leaves, walking out the side door and he knows Tony’s following him but he doesn’t stop until there’s a hand on his arm.

“What the hell? I told you, I had a bad day. This isn’t about you. Why can’t you hold yourself together for ten fucking minutes?”

“I can’t hold myself together? You’re right, that’s _not_ about me.”

“Okay, fine. I apologize,” Tony says, sounding far from apologetic. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just saying you have some responsibility here.” He sighs, looking tired and way too serious. “You can’t expect me to fix you.”

“I don’t _want_ you to _fix_ me. I don’t want you to do _anything_.”

“I’m _trying_ to help you,” Tony says. “You know, you help me, I help you, except apparently not the first one.”

“You need my help with something? You need me?”

“Yes,” Tony says. “I do.”

“For what?”

“I…” he trails off. “Things. That’s not important.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Right.”

“Can we just go back to your place?”

“No,” he says, and he’s not supposed to do this. Not here. The time’s not right. “I'm just a problem for you.”

Tony frowns. “What?”

“I – this isn’t working.” He swallows, trying to hold back tears, because that’s the last thing he needs to happen. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

He takes one last look at Tony’s shocked face and then he turns away, his whole body tense. And he walks away before Tony can stop him, before Tony can make him feel even worse about this, repeating over and over again that it’s for the best. That it was great while it lasted but Steve can’t have everything he wants and he doesn’t deserve this and he can’t look Tony in the eye anymore and it’s entirely his fault.

He hears Tony call his name. He walks faster.

****

He spends Sunday in his bed, crying sometimes, mostly lying there and feeling numb. Occasionally he has to get up, to use the bathroom, to delete Tony’s messages. 

Peggy had made him promise he’d visit her any time he was feeling down. He’d promised. But this isn’t like that. This is different. This is the end of his first real relationship. He’s supposed to feel like he’s had his heart ripped out. Like he can barely breathe with the weight of everything he just lost.

Lost is the wrong word. He gave it up.

He’s not sad. 

He’s just empty.

Deeply and profoundly empty. 

He’s felt worse. He knows that he’s felt so much worse. This couldn’t hold a candle to how he felt when Bucky died, when they woke him up and he realized he’d lost everything. Not to how he feels when he thinks about everybody he’s lost. About who he’s become

Just because it’s not the worst pain he’s ever felt doesn’t mean he can handle it.

He curls up and tries to be alone but it turns out he doesn’t know how to do that anymore. There isn't an inch of his body that doesn't have a memory, of Tony's hands or Tony's lips or Tony's teeth or -

He can't hug himself without feeling Tony's arm around his chest, can't even lower his pants without remembering Tony's strong hands, on his hips, spreading his thighs.

He can't hold his head in his hands because all that does is remind him that his own fingers will never feel as soothing again.

He used to be able to comfort himself. He used to be able, when it all got hard, to wrap his arms around himself and that was enough. He's not like that anymore. He needs someone to hold him.

He doesn't need someone. He needs Tony.

He hates himself, every bit of himself. He hates that he ruined everything that he could have had. Hates that he didn’t deserve it in the first place. 

He hates that he can’t hate himself enough to really believe that this was for the best.

He can’t stop thinking about the things he’ll never do again, the way he’ll never be able to kiss him, touch him, feel him, maybe never even see him. A part of him hopes he never sees him again. He doesn’t know if he can handle that. If he could resist the urge to pull him into his arms and say he made a mistake, they should get back together.

He made a mistake. They should get back together.

He knows he’s wrong for wanting it, but all he wants is Tony’s head next to his on the pillow, or Tony’s head on the pillow and his head on the bed because Tony wouldn’t share the pillow. He wants Tony’s arm draped across his stomach and Tony’s skin against his and he wants Tony. He wants him so bad.

He’s not sure how he gets turned on, how he can even get turned on when he’s not feeling anything but it’s got to be all of the memories, all of the moments he keeps going through of Tony’s body and Tony’s mouth, and Tony’s cock and Tony’s ass and, well, it's his own fucking fault that he has a damn near photographic memory. It’s probably remembering the way Tony’s lips move, the casual flick of his tongue and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. 

It’s probably none of that, it’s probably just an erection. But he makes it that, by thinking too hard. He makes it about Tony and before he knows it he’s gripping too tight and stroking too fast to every visual and tactile memory he can drum up. Before he knows it he’s coming, a mixture of guilt and grief and semen and regret, hitting his skin like acid, twisting up inside of him. 

It doesn’t make him feel better. He didn’t expect it to.

****

He doesn’t set an alarm that night. 

He wakes up too early, unusually alert, and he looks up and there’s a dark figure sitting at his table.

He’s on his feet, reaching for something to use as a weapon, before she has a chance to speak.

“Just me,” she says, and he doesn’t recognize the voice but then she flips the light switch and it’s Natasha.

“Stark’s an ass,” she says. “No reason to miss work.”

There are so many things wrong with that statement that he doesn’t know to respond.

“Are you going to offer me a drink?”

Steve runs a hand over his face. “I was going to show up,” he says, blinking at the clock. He still has an hour.

“And I believe you,” Natasha says, pursing her lips into a soft little smile. 

“What was that about Stark?”

“You broke up. Saturday.”

He considers denying that but there are much more pressing concerns. And he doesn’t know if he can deny it without crying, or at least wanting to. “Are you following me?”

“No, of course not.” She shrugs, tosses her hair. “SHIELD is.” Quirks her head. “In public, at least.”

He’s shocked at the casual way she says that, at the fact that SHIELD would follow him after he’d expressed his disapproval of their invasive practices, at the fact that he’s shocked at all.

“You really didn’t think SHIELD was keeping an eye on you? Doing a little damage control? Wouldn’t do for Fury’s golden boy to get caught up in a sex scandal with Stark.”

“A… sex scandal?” Thinking of Tony sends a pang down his chest, but thinking of him like he’s some bad influence hurts more. “It wasn’t like like that.”

“Shhh. Shower. Shave. We can discuss the fineries of your relationship later.”

He does, the water streaming down his face and he thinks of Tony but mostly he thinks about SHIELD, about the life he thought he was living that he obviously wasn’t. He wonders how much they know. If they know all about him, all about Tony, if he’s just their little guinea pig. 

He should have known, he should have fucking realized that they would follow him, and maybe tap his phone, all of that. He should have known because Fury had showed him that, all of it, and he’d been young and naive and idealistic and said he wanted nothing to do with it.

He hadn’t considered that leaving wouldn’t exempt him, that the same things they wanted to use with him they were just using against him.

He wants to hit something, wants to punch the wall but he can’t do that anymore because it used to be that he’d break his hand and that was fine, but now he’ll break the wall and that costs money and takes time and is destroying something that doesn’t belong to him.

Sometimes he misses the days when he was the only one his aggression could hurt. 

He comes out and Natasha’s cooking eggs. She’s set the table and she’s making toast out of that cheap bread he has for sandwiches. She looks up at him, and smiles, slow, like he’s genuinely glad to see him. And just for a second he doesn’t mind so much that she’s here.

They eat mostly in silence, with the little scrape and clang of silverware against dishes. She barely looks up, barely says anything. But then, toward the end, she catches his eye, and she says, in that calm, even way of hers, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know why, or what for, but just that little gesture makes him feel slightly less alone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that at this point, everyone who wants to see Cap 2 has had a chance to see it. I do not include spoilers (seeing how this fic split with the MCU following The Avengers), but I am introducing a character from it.
> 
> Also I promise this fic will be happy again at some point.

He makes it through the day. He thinks about Tony once, twice, too many times to count. Every time his breath catching in his throat.

He can control his emotions. That’s fine. He can push them down and focus on his job. He can do that.

It’s not that simple.

Everything he does reminds him of Tony. And that’s perhaps understandable because this whole job is built on things Tony hates, things that Steve hates.

It’s hard, hating something together, now that they’re not.

He tries to focus on the work and forget but that’s not how it works.

So he focuses on his work, and he remembers. Over, and over again.

He spends the day going through chat logs and phone calls and all of the damning evidence, even though he really isn’t supposed to. He’s looking for some reason to get mad, to decide that these people don’t deserve this, that SHIELD is violating their privacy and making targets out of innocent people.

He doesn’t find any.

He finds evidence, tons of it, that leads him to agree that these people are threats, to think that SHIELD need to take action.

He finds a lot of evidence that makes him want to give up his hope in humanity, actually.

And he can’t help being suspicious that he’s been set up to feel this way. That someone has been giving him the files without any shades of grey, so that he’ll stop looking so closely.

He wants to stop, wants to quit reading and believing these terrible things, but he can’t. Somewhere, one person will be innocent. He knows this as he pores through every little shred of evidence. One person. That’s all it takes, and then this will be worth it.

He doesn’t find one, not the first day. That’s okay.

Or the second day. That’s fine.

Halfway through the third day, he begins to worry that he hasn’t found at least one person who deserves the benefit of his doubt. Is he becoming jaded?

It’s possible.

He’s spent the last three days feeling broken and tired. He needs to make a change.

He thinks about going out, after work, but then his mind is full of Tony again, Tony’s suggestions, the places Tony wanted to take him, if Steve could have just been a little more okay with the thought of being a couple in public.

It’s like it’s impossible to escape, like Tony is everywhere. In every little thing he does.

It’s easy to let himself wallow in the pain of it, but he doesn’t because he knows it’s his own fault.

Tony is everywhere because Steve’s putting him there. Every little thing he does, everything that happens to him, it’s Tony he thinks of. Tony who he imagines talking to, laughing with, for the one split second before he realizes that he can’t.

He hates himself for it.

He’d realized even within just a few weeks of arriving in the god damned 21st century that he was doing this, with Peggy. Turning his life into a series of new experiences that only had any significance to him because they mattered to her. Because _he_ mattered to her.

He doesn’t know when he started doing it with Tony. He wonders if he’s been deluding himself, if he’s not any better than he was. If he’s living at all, or if he’s just chosen people to live for.

That’s got to be why this is so hard. It’s not that he somehow needs Tony, or loves him, or wants to be with him. They’re not compatible. He’s known this from the very first fucking second that they met.

It doesn’t hurt because of that. It hurts because he’s selfish. He wanted Tony, and he doesn’t have him anymore.

That’s it.

That’s all there is.

It hurts different than losing Bucky. It hurts so different. That was love. That was devotion. And trust and understanding, and he blinks, because he can’t cry about this at work. He can’t do that. 

Losing Tony isn’t even close to the worst that he’s ever felt. He repeats that like a mantra, every time Tony’s stupid name pops into his stupid head. 

He’s felt worse. He’s being selfish. He was using him, and he let him go, and of course it’s going to hurt, for a while, maybe a long time.

It _should_ hurt. He should have to pay for his mistakes.

He should be able to hold it together better than this.

God, he wishes Tony hadn’t broken up with him.

He doesn’t know if he can take it, doesn’t know how long he’ll have to pretend that he’s okay.

He works through his lunch because he’s not about to spend a moment without something to distract him.

He works for hours, before he remembers. Tony didn’t break up with him.

But boy does it feel like that.

*****

On Thursday, Natasha shows up at his desk as he’s about to leave.

He puts on a cocky grin. “Checking up on me?”

“Something like that.”

She puts her hands on her hips, makes it evident that it’s his turn to speak, now.

“Infamous spy and all, thought you’d be a little more discreet.”

“Well, word got out about your age, figured we’d throw you a retirement party.”

He raises an eyebrow, leans back. Tries to make it evident that it’s her turn to speak, now.

She does. “Join me for a beer?”

He considers it, a second. “I don’t drink.”

“Cheese fries, then.”

He could go out with her. They could talk about – well, something. It would be a change of pace. A chance to forget about Tony.

He looks at her for a moment, so it doesn’t seem like he’s rushing. And then he says, casual, “I have plans.”

“Crying into your pillow doesn’t really qualify as ‘plans’.”

“Huh,” he says, reflexively, the sound his throat makes as his chest tightens up, carefully disguised as something a person who is okay would say. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She shrugs. “Tomorrow, maybe?” And she’s gone.

That’s good. 

He wants her to be gone.

He wants to be alone.

And then he’s alone, and he wishes he had someone, anyone, there for him. He’s alone in his apartment and he can hear his neighbors through his wall, and he wishes he’d said yes, even as he knows that he shouldn’t be so weak.

He wonders how it’d feel to crash his motorcycle into something. Because in his head, it feels good.

Not good, _great_. Better than he’s felt in a long time. Just that thought, that image sends waves of something that feels like it could be happiness through him.

Not fast enough to kill himself. He still wouldn’t do that. He’d never do that.

But the thought of it, of dashing his body against something solid, in his head it’s only comforting.

It doesn’t feel like pain, in his head. It feels like punishment, like energy, like anything. It feels like him slamming hard enough against something solid, something strong and enduring, just hard enough to remind himself that he isn’t.

He wonders how fast he’d have to go for the world to go dark on him. How fast he’d have to go to make that permanent. 

This isn’t a new thought. But it’s been a while.

He wonders if he can die at all.

Certainly, he can. That’s what they all told him, that’s what everyone’s told him.

But they would have told him, if he’d had the foresight to ask, that he wouldn’t survive 70 years in the ocean.

And would you just look at him now.

****

If he crumples up all of the blankets and pillows he owns, and a few of his clothes, he can make something substantial enough to hold onto as he shivers himself to sleep. 

It’s his own fault that he doesn’t turn on the heat. He could do that. But it feels like giving up, like making things too easy on himself. 

Besides, he needs to save his money. He doesn’t know where he’ll be tomorrow, five years, ten years from now, three hundred years from now.

He’s slept in a lot of uncomfortable places. He’s used to it. But he still can’t fall asleep until he can somehow convince himself that being alone is more bearable than the cold.

He finds himself thinking about Tony’s bed, fantasizing about it, when he’s relaxed enough to let go of that vice that grips his heart every time he thinks of Tony.

It’s not the bed he’s thinking about, obviously. He’d sleep on a bed of nails and he’d sleep fine if Tony were there. 

His bed is too big and too soft and too empty without Tony.

The ground is too big, and too soft, and too empty. Without Tony.

He can’t sleep in the shower, or the closet. He’s too big.

He could stay up all night, but at least when he’s sleeping he gets to forget.

He could sleep forever, because every time he wakes up he has to remember.

****

He doesn’t say anything to Peggy until she asks him how Tony’s doing, and at that point it’s been over for almost a week.

“I broke up with him,” he says, in a smooth, calm voice intended to convey his deep lack of a need to discuss it. “It wasn’t working.”

Peggy nods.

“He was too old for me,” Steve says, a few minutes later.

Peggy looks up, feigns misunderstanding. “Who?”

He frowns.

She squints at him, reaches out to touch his face. “Gerald, is that you?”

Steve brushes her hand away without smiling. “This is serious.”

She smiles too. “It’s not,” she says, and then she lays a comforting hand on his. “But I’m sure it seems that way now.”

He knows she’s right, because she’s always right. But that doesn’t mean she’s right.

“We’re very different people,” he tells her, and it’s true, in a vast number of ways.

“Certainly.”

“He doesn’t value the same things I do.” 

“Mhmm.”

“He’s too -” he stops, can’t think of the right word. Can’t say demanding, can’t say immature, or entitled or impulsive because those would be true, and they would be good reasons for them to have broken up, but they’re not. He doesn’t finish the sentence.

She nods.

“Aren’t you going to tell me I made a mistake?”

“That’s not my call, is it?”

****

He realizes the importance of his job. 

Not the importance of what he’s doing, of course. He’s not stupid enough to think that he’s been entrusted with something truly valuable.

It’s just important that he has a job, because for those eight or ten or twelve hours of the day, he has something to do. 

He’s still beating his head against a concrete wall of people who refuse to be innocent, but at least it’s taking up his time.

The third time she asks, he takes Natasha up on the invitation.

“You can probably still get drunk,” she says, returning to their table with a pint of vodka. “Four times the metabolism, four times the alcohol. Simple math.”

He takes the glass, looks at it. Takes a sip and grimaces. “I didn’t know they sold vodka in pints.”

She ignores that, passes him a second glass. “Sip of vodka, sip of cranberry.”

He takes a longer drink of the vodka, grimaces. Doesn’t touch the cranberry. He wants this to work.

Natasha tells him it gets easier, and the first one’s always the hardest, and the longer she talks, it’s clear she talking about killing, not love, and from her tone it’s clear she doesn’t believe the things she’s saying in either respect, and Steve guesses she’s quoting someone, because if she’s not then this is a massive jump in her willingness to share.

He thanks her. Wonders why she does it. He’s absolutely certain that every word out of her mouth was not intended to be comfort. He’s sure that she could comfort him, if she wanted to.

It helps.

He replays the words in his mind in exactly the tone of voice she says them. A little too solemn, like she knows what she’s saying is bullshit.

It helps.

He doesn’t get drunk, but maybe it does something, maybe it takes the edge off, because by the end of the night he’s feeling – well, not great. But he feels like he can handle it.

“I think you’re better off without him,” she says as they part ways, patting him on the shoulder in a friendly way.

He can’t seem to make himself agree.

*****

He goes to the library.

He’s done this a ton of times, for a bunch of different reasons. But this is the first time he’s been in there for a DVD.

He knows, in some rational part of his mind, that he’s being ridiculous. That even if Tony was wrong, and Brokeback Mountain isn’t sad at all, that doesn’t fix anything. But still, he has to know.

He walks with the DVD in hand, staring at the cover, barely noticing the man he almost knocks over.

“Whoa there,” is all he hears, an almost friendly warning from a complete stranger. And he stops just before they collide, feels that buzz of almost-touching.

Then he feels a hand fall on his shoulder, looks up, and finds himself just inches from a black guy with a broad smile.

“Pardon me,” Steve says, feeling all the worse for the fact that he immediately likes this guy. “I shouldn’t have been distracted.”

“Hey, no worries.” He lets go of Steve’s shoulder, and it’s only then that he realizes his hand has been there for a bit too long. “I know how it is, get caught up in a book, we’ve all been there.” 

Steve looks down at the movie, and so the other guy does too.

“Well,” he adds. “Some of us are slower readers than others.”

It’s sarcastic, but it’s light, easy, no judgement. Steve smiles. 

“Steve Rogers,” he says, offering his hand.

“Sam Wilson.” 

He has a good handshake. Solid, firm through the arm.

“Great movie,” he adds, nodding down at Steve’s other hand. “Sad.”

“Haven’t seen it,” Steve says, wondering, briefly, if he could know. If holding the movie is enough of a giveaway. Hell, wonders if Sam isn’t the same way. The lingering hand, the eye contact, the smile. “Anyway, I –”

Sam frowns at him. “Hey, haven’t I seen you before?”

This has happened before. His face is out there, after all. It’s just that no one knows he’s still alive. 

He says what he always says. “I have a familiar face.”

“Nah, man, I’ve seen you out running. You’re the freaky fast one?”

Oh. He shrugs. “Could be.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, nodding. “Yeah. No, I could kinda – well, understandably, I recognize you best from behind.”

That sounds kind of like innuendo, particularly paired with the slightly crooked grin. Or maybe – and he tenses his jaw as soon as he thinks it – that’s just Tony’s influence.

“You military?”

“Hmm?” Steve’s clenching the DVD box too hard. Could break it. Has to be careful. Finally hears the question. “Used to be.”

“Same,” Sam says. “Working at the VA now.”

Steve should do a better job of not being distracted.

“Here,” Sam says, pulling off a corner of the already small piece of paper he’s holding and scribbling something on it. “You want a running partner, hit me up.”

He flashes Steve another easy grin, and walks away, looking back once as though to catch Steve watching him. 

Steve looks down at the slip of paper in his hand, and at the movie he’s holding, and is definitely, absolutely certain that this Sam Wilson was coming on to him.

He’s not ready for that.

He sticks the number in his wallet anyway.

Leaves without the DVD.

*****

He goes to work and he’s good at his job. Very good.

It’s not military strategy, but it’s strategy nonetheless. And it’s the only thing he has, really.

He stays late, working. Tries to go in early, but it’s all it takes just to pull himself out of bed in time to put on his suit. 

Tony’s suit. Tony’s money, at least.

He knows that he should buy a new one, but he can’t. He imagines Tony’s hands running down the front of it, sometimes, when he’s still half asleep. When he wakes up feeling terrible but isn’t lucid enough to remember why.

Tony had pestered him with calls for the first three days, and then they tapered off, and then they stopped. Completely.

He comes home and listens to his messages, and there aren’t any. He checks his cell phone for notifications and there aren’t any.

He tries to convince himself, sometimes, that he’s not just checking if Tony has tried to contact him. There are other people who could, after all.

And that’s how he finds himself wondering why Bruce hasn’t tried to get in touch. Bruce has a reason to need him. He’d said as much. 

He even wants Pepper to call him. To call him, angry, to tell him how messed up, how he needs to apologize and make things right with Tony, right now. He wants that because it would tell him that he’s wrong, that Tony still wants him. 

She doesn’t call.

****

He goes to work and there are expectations, very concrete and exact expectations. And the whole thing is military, it’s comfort, it’s familiarity. He wonders why he didn’t start working there before.

He knows why.

It’s just that now those things that had seemed to matter to him don’t anymore. SHIELD is all he has, after Peggy, and Peggy’s SHIELD anyway. He could cause trouble, but that’d lose the only thing he has.

So he does his work, and he does it well, and he’s respectful, and nobody challenges him. He still spends too much time reading the evidence, too much time trying to convince himself that he’s making a difference, but he still gets everything done. No one asks him what’s taking him so long.

In fact, he gets a ton of praise. And he doesn’t know how much of that is just SHIELD trying to keep him around, and every time he gets a compliment he feels the need to work that much harder.

Still, it makes him feel good.

It’s only been a little over a week and he already feels like he belongs. Like he’s a part of something. He feels more at home at work than he has anywhere in this century.

“That’s how they get you,” he can imagine Tony saying, but he’s gotten strong enough to shake that off.

He puts on an act, with everybody there, but that’s what he’s always done, that’s what you’re supposed to do. He’s the picture of confidence, of good nature, of quick comebacks.

He’s always been good at those, but the serum, it seems, made him quicker. 

The only thing that trips him up are the compliments, that leave him making excuses and looking at his coffee.

He’s not like Natasha. He’s not duplicitous. He’s just not letting his issues show. She’s all issues and confidence and not letting him know her.

He doesn’t even know what her issues are. 

She’s the closest he has to a friend, after Peggy.

That’s okay. He doesn’t need friends.

It’s enough that people are friendly, nodding at him as he walks past. That he has their respect, that he feels comfortable walking around here.

He’s just walking back to his desk, and then he turns a corner and he looks up and there, down the hall, is Tony.

His chest swells with feelings that are positive and familiar and warm and then in mere seconds they crash to a pit in his stomach. It has been ten days. Ten days that feel like weeks, and he’s not ready for this.

Blinks once, because it can’t be him. Why would Tony be here? 

Blinks twice. It is.

It’s too late to avoid him without making it obvious that he’s trying to.

He’s not ready for this.

Tony looks ready for this, looks ready for anything, all put together and perfect the way he always does, joking with the person next to him. Joking _at_ the person next to him, Steve corrects himself, gritting his teeth.

Tony’s eyes meet Steve’s from a distance, and there’s nothing there, no surprise, no discomfort. Like this is some normal chance meeting, like Steve is someone he barely knows.

Steve nods in his direction as he approaches, casual. He wants to keep his tone neutral, but he can’t do that so he settles on harsh. “Stark.” 

Tony looks at him, and he makes a big show of looking Steve up and down for the benefit of whoever he’s with. Doesn’t quite stop but he still slows, taking in Steve’s suit – Tony’s suit – eyes lingering like he’s impressed. But when he speaks it’s with a truncated nod and a voice full of contempt. “Rogers.”

And he walks on.

It’s over in seconds, if that. It’s over and Steve’s not ready for it to end, just as he wasn’t ready for it to happen. 

He’s glad Tony didn’t stop, didn’t draw it out. Didn’t make Steve bullshit his way through words he’s not ready to be saying with a steady voice.

He wishes Tony had stopped.

He wants to see him again. Wants to hold him, to be held by him. Wants it so badly.

He makes his way back to his desk and he squares his shoulders, leans his head against the desk and rubs his eyes and feels violated. Why did Tony have to find him here? Why does Tony have to be in one place that he feels okay, occasionally?

He’s not sure how long he sits, head in his hands, but it must be a while. And when he hears a throat clearing behind him, he jumps to attention, turns around quickly, best posture, hoping he doesn’t look like he’s just been napping.

It’s Tony. And Tony doesn’t even look at him, he just says, like it’s one of his little quips, “you’ve been crying.”

“Leave me alone,” Steve says, clenching his hand into a fist.

And then Tony does look at him, but this time he’s looking at Steve, not the suit, and his voice softens. “Call me, please,” he says.

And then he’s gone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive! And I'm really, really, sorry for the delay. Call it an unannounced hiatus. And you can hold me to the promise that I will not abandon this, but I can't in good conscience guarantee that I will be more prompt than I was pre-hiatus, because it turns out I am both very busy and extremely undisciplined.
> 
> I very much appreciate everyone who is still reading and has stuck by this fic despite my continual proof that I am not set to hold up my end of the bargain in a timely manner <3

It’s Thursday night, and he tidies up his sparse apartment, and he picks up Sam Wilson’s number, scrawled on that little slip of paper.

Looks at it. Thinks about how it would be, if he were the type of person who could do that. Just call him up, move on. If that would be easier. Better. He thinks it would.

If he were more like Tony.

There’s a sick, sick feeling in his stomach as he thinks that, as he realizes that Tony’s probably with someone else tonight.

Has probably been with someone else every night, someone who doesn’t have to be cajoled, who will just give him what he wants. Interchangeable after interchangeable someone until Steve becomes just one of them, just an unpleasant memory. While Steve’s been curled up on his bed, alone.

That hurts worse than it should. He brought this on himself.

He should just do it. Just call him. Turn Sam into a cheap date, someone to feel less alone with and then forget about. For all he knows that’s all Sam wants from him. But he can’t imagine doing it to either of them.

He doesn’t throw the number away. He doesn’t call either.

He curls up on his bed, draws his knees against his chest, or at least as close as he can get before his muscles get in the way.

He used to be able to lay with his knees drawn tight against his chest. It used to feel good, but now all he can feel is the unyielding mass of his thighs against the unyielding wall of his abdomen, tenting him into an uncomfortable triangle.

There’s one more day to get through, two more nights, and then there’s the weekend.

And then there’s nothing to do.

He could surprise Peggy. They could go for a walk, have a picnic, get outside. She enjoys that, when the weather’s good enough.

He’ll do that.

It’s good to have something to look forward to.

And a picnic would be –

Exactly what he did with Tony. The first time they –

He clenches his teeth. The first time it mattered, at least. If it ever did. 

He closes his eyes and grips the sheets and it’s not going to get easier, is it? It’ll just be like everything else, he’ll learn to handle it because he has to but it’s not going to get easier.

Some day he’ll learn not to think about it all the time.

But nothing gets easier.

None of it. Not even Peggy, as much as he still has her now. Less than a year ago he was thinking about how some day he’d be taking her out somewhere nice, how maybe even then he’d be feeling flustered and confused and head-over-heels around her. He was thinking – a secret hope he’d never admit to – that one day he’d marry her.

And now. Now he’s considering the logistics of getting her out of her nursing home and taking her to a nearby park, where she’ll get tired too quickly and he’ll have to cut up her food nice and small and watch her eat it slowly and sure she’s still the same person but that doesn’t really make it the same, does it?

That’s what he gets, now.

What he gets is loneliness and longing and hoping and sometimes wishing he could just let it all go, wishing he could forget everything. But he can’t.

He’s stopped remembering as often. It doesn’t hurt any less when he does.

When he’s happy, when things are good and he’s distracted he can forget, he can get so missing Bucky is just a dull ache in his bones. So that Peggy is his friend, and his confidante, and he doesn’t dwell on all the time they’ve lost because he’s so glad he has any left. 

But when he’s down – well, then there’s nothing to think but bad thoughts.

And he’s down.

He hates himself more for letting Tony affect him this way. For letting the thoughts of Tony worm their way into his brain, for letting them find all of the things he’s trying to hide away. Making him remember every regret, every moment he wishes he could undo. He thinks about Tony, and then he thinks about Bucky, and then everything comes crashing down on him and he can’t stand it.

He doesn’t think it would be so bad if it were just about missing Tony. But it’s not, is it? It’s about wanting to forget, wanting what he had with Tony when they were together, those moments when Tony was the only person in the world for him. Because as soon as that’s not the case, he’s stuck here again.

Remembering.

He doesn’t want to forget Bucky. He could never do that.

He just can’t stand how much it hurts when he can’t.

*****

Theresa asks him if he’d like to join her in exploring the city over the weekend, and Steve says no, thank you, and Peggy says yes, he’d love to. So yes, he’d love to.

He thinks about telling Peggy about his idea. Letting her know that he’s going to take her out somewhere over the weekend, just the two of them. 

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to commit to something, not if it’s too hard to get up tomorrow.

He doesn’t make up happy stories, he’d never lie to her like that. He just shares the highlights, talks about how well he’s doing at his work, how it gives him some of the structure he misses from the military. Those aren’t lies. Theresa nods along like she understands and even though he knows she couldn’t, somehow he doesn’t mind that.

Theresa carries the conversation, once he gives up on it. She talks like she’s full of hope, of excitement and Steve looks at her and thinks how nice it must be to be young and positive like she is. 

He’s younger than she is. Technically.

He feels so old.

He struggles to keep that out of his voice, struggles to meet her tone, to care about things.

He only has about an hour, anyway, before Peggy needs to go to sleep. It’s a good hour. He makes sure of that, makes sure to keep his tone light, makes sure to smile.

“I hate to see you like this,” Peggy says, as soon as Theresa leaves. He watches the door latch in place and he waits for one, two, three, taps of his fingers.

“I’m okay,” he says. 

She just looks at him, doubt and disappointment in her eyes, until he gives in.

“Peg, it’s okay, really,” he says, and as much as he feels put on the spot, it helps to feel that she cares. “I miss him, sure. I miss a lot of people.”

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” he says, then shrugs. “Yes.”

“But,” she prompts.

And he knows that she’s baiting him but he doesn’t mind taking it. “But some things are more important than that.”

“Like your pride?”

He hunches his shoulders. “I said I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Would you like to talk about yourself?”

“No.” Not at all.

She places one hand on his arm, soothing. “I worry about you.”

This conversation again. “You shouldn’t.”

“Well, if I had known I _shouldn’t_ –”

He smiles, thin. Acknowledges the joke but doesn’t feel it. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I wish you would see a therapist,” she says, and from her voice it’s clear she knows just how likely he is to do that. “They’re much better these days.”

“I _just_ broke up with him. I’m allowed to be sad.”

“You’re always _allowed_ to be sad,” she says. “It doesn’t mean you never want to feel better.”

But that’s exactly how it feels.

She yawns, and he immediately stands. They shouldn’t be discussing his problems when she could be sleeping. “I should go,” he says, willing it not to sound like an excuse. “It’s late.”

She frowns. “Sit back down,” she says, her voice calm and even and so very commanding. He complies without a thought. “We’re not done talking about this.”

He swallows.

“You need to take responsibility for yourself,” she says. “I won’t be around much longer.”

“Peg –” he exhales. It’s like a punch to the gut. They don’t mention that.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, softening, touching his cheek. “I shouldn't have said that. But it’s true.”

‘You shouldn’t talk like that,” he says, and he knows he has no right to speak but he pushes through. “You shouldn’t give up hope.”

“I made my peace with it a long time ago.”

That’s not what he wants to hear, not what he wants to think.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that. I don’t want to upset you.”

“It doesn’t upset me,” he says, declarative and impulsive and then that’s absolutely a lie and he knows it and he smiles. “I guess it does. But it always will.”

She pats him on the head. “I appreciate that,” she says. “I do. But I’d rather wait until you’re in a better place.”

He’s not fragile. He doesn’t need to be protected. He can handle this. He can think about what that means for him, for them. He can be okay with it

“There’s nothing to talk about anyway,” he says, breathing heavy, like he always does before he cries. He’s not going to cry. It’s too sudden to cry. He has to dwell on it first, and right now the words are just leaving his mouth and he didn’t even know they were ready to be said. 

“I know you’re going to die. I know everyone I ever love is going to die, and I’m going to live. Maybe forever.”

He hears the words as they come out, hears them and is horrified. This isn’t their relationship. He doesn’t share that. Shouldn’t. It’s his own problem.

She lets him keep his dignity, just squeezes his hand and doesn’t respond. He’s grateful for that. He’s cried in front of her, he’s been weak and pitied but he’s never let himself go quite like this. And there an anger that’s holding the tears back, and he’s glad for that too. For that terrible, self-pitying sense of injustice that keeps him together.

“Okay,” he says, looking down, giving in, because the only other option is to stand firm and look like he’s proud of what he just said. “Okay, I’ll – think about it. Seeing a therapist.”

She smiles at him, but it’s just a gesture. He can tell she knows that he’s cornered, that he’s leaving himself an out. He _will_ think about it. That much is true. But he already knows what he’ll decide.

He sits there holding her hand and she caresses his arm and he finds a way to clamp down on his immortality. To let it occupy the box in the back of his mind that he keeps locked shut. He can’t always do that. But it’s easier, when she’s here with him, when he’s not feeling alone. “I’ll think about it,” he says, and swallows, dry mouthed. “Seeing a therapist. But I don’t want to talk any more tonight.”

She nods, giving in faster than he thinks she will and he just feels worse for letting her see him like this, for making her feel responsible for him.

“I love you,” she says. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I love you too,” he says, and he swallows, a lump forming in his throat. 

A regret building in his chest. There’s a chance, always a chance that he won’t see her again. He doesn’t want this to be their last conversation.

But he can’t imagine them picking up from that, going back to normal, neutral topics. He knows if he stays it’ll just be about the same thing, if he’s happy. Is he happy?

He is happy. He’s happy in bits and pieces, he’s even been happy in the last week, multiple times. That’s what she doesn’t understand, what Tony didn’t understand. He’s happy. He’s not happy all the time, but then, who is?

And he dwells on the sadness, he feels it more. That’s why it feels like it’s consuming him sometimes. 

If he looks back, if he takes inventory of when he’s felt happy, and when he’s felt sad, and when he’s not feeling particularly one thing or the other, it’s not that much. He’s not sad that much. He’s not.

He could get back together with Tony.

He doesn’t need Tony to be happy. He just can’t be happy right now, right after losing him.

He should get back together with Tony.

Then he’ll be happy.

Then she’ll be happy.

But there’s something he’s beginning to suspect, something he doesn't want to admit. That getting back together with Tony probably won’t do anything. That even if that makes him feel better, even if that makes him feel amazing, it probably won’t be enough.

He can be happy. It just doesn’t stick.

There’s nothing to talk about.

And even if he wants Tony back, he lost his chance. There’s no way Tony wants to go back to what they had, back to staying in and having a sexless relationship and watching Steve cry when he could be out drinking and having fun and meeting infinitely more interesting people.

So he goes home to his quiet little apartment, and he has a glass of water, and he rinses the glass, and places it, upside down, next to the sink.

Doesn’t think about Tony.

The problem is even the thought of telling Tony he made a mistake, he wants him back, even that terrifies him. Because he can imagine doing it all he wants, can imagine Tony forgiving him, holding him, wanting him. He can imagine but he can’t do it. Because that’s when he’ll get confirmation, that’s when he’ll know for sure that he’s not good enough.

He has the news on. Always has the radio on these days so it’s not silence, but he’s not listening. It doesn’t help.

It helps less when he does listen, when he has to hear about everything going on in the world, everything that he feels powerless to stop. When he does listen he feels paralyzed.

So he doesn’t listen. He just needs the noise.

He reads instead, reads through two whole magazines, ones that he’s already read. 

There’s no point in talking to anyone. He’s fine. He can be happy. He can do it.

Tomorrow, he thinks. He’ll take Peggy out, and it’ll be just the two of them. They can talk, he’ll be happy. It’ll be good.

*****

There’s a knock on the door.

Steve’s still not quite asleep, and he rolls over, pondering how thin these walls must be for that knock to sound so loud when it’s clearly got to be on someone else’s door.

There’s another knock on the door.

This time it’s clearer, definitely intended for him, and he sits up, slowly. It’s probably Natasha, looking to drag him out to another bar so they can both avoid talking about their feelings. Together.

He pulls on a shirt, buttons his pants in time with the third, more insistent knock. 

It’s not like Natasha to knock.

He doesn’t even bother with the peephole. There’s no one who could be a threat to him.

It’s Tony.

He throws open the door and there’s Tony, standing right in front of his door, on the little brown mat that says “welcome,” right in front of him. At his apartment.

Tony blinks at him, once, like he’s surprised to see that Steve lives here. “I, uh –”

Steve can’t think for a moment, can’t move, and then Tony’s walking inside like he’s been invited, and the next thing he knows he’s got Tony’s face in his hands, Tony’s lips pressed against his, and it’s like a huge weight has lifted off of him, like he’s floating. 

He’s never felt quite like this. Never known he’s awake but still been completely convinced that he must be dreaming.

He has to be dreaming.

There’s no way this is real.

Tony makes some unintelligible noise against his lips and Steve can feel the vibrations, and then Tony’s kicking the door closed and kissing him back.

Steve’s pulse is beating through him. He can feel it in his chest and his gut, can hear the blood pounding in his ears, he can feel it everywhere Tony is pressed up against him. This is real.

Tony’s hands are wrapped around his neck, each individual finger gripping him, holding him close, and Tony’s breath is on his lips, and Steve leans into him like Tony’s the only thing keeping him upright.

And then Tony’s tugging at his tie and Steve lifts his own shirt over his head. Tries a button on Tony’s shirt before getting frustrated and just tearing it open, ripping, sending buttons flying, so they can be skin on skin.

He’d forgotten how good Tony feels. How Tony’s body is an intoxicating balance of firm against him and soft beneath his fingers, how Tony’s fingers leave trails of desire in their wake as they move across his skin.

He still feels like this can’t possibly be happening, but he can feel everything, can hear the gasps as Tony breathes into him. And Tony pushes him up against the wall, runs hands down his back, grabs his hips and grinds against him, hard, and he can feel that for sure.

He wants to say something, anything, wants to say ‘I’m sorry’, or ‘I miss you’, or ‘I love you,’ but he doesn’t want to break the silence, doesn’t want to contribute anything above a little gasp as Tony kisses him on the neck. Is afraid if he does they’ll snap out of this, remember that they’re not together, that if he does that then the gap between them will return.

He’s not feeling that now, he’s just feeling good, feeling close and comfortable, with Tony’s lips on his collarbone, the tickle of Tony’s hair on his neck. Feeling a little jolt of electricity run through him as he slides his hands down to Tony’s ass and pulls him closer.

Tony looks up at him through his lashes, bites his lip. And Steve watches Tony's lip slide out from under his teeth and he gets the sudden urge to have it between his own teeth. Lets the hesitation go and just does, just takes and feels and Tony moans, fingernails digging into his shoulder.

He’s so caught up in kissing, holding, feeling, that he doesn’t even fully register that it’s sexual until Tony’s hand is wrapped around his cock. And after that he can’t imagine how it could not be sexual. How he could want anything but that connection, that intimate, desperate closeness that he can’t seem to stop denying himself.

Tony’s eyes meet his, narrowed with desire, and he feels so good it almost hurts.

They tumble onto his bed. Tony’s elbow jabs him in the chest as he falls on top of him. And Tony catches himself, a soft “sorry,” on his lips, before Steve’s lips are on his lips, and that’s it. 

There’s sound, they’ve talked, he hasn’t snapped out of it.

He pushes Tony’s boxers down, grasping his hips, squeezing, caressing, running his hands over the curve of his ass, his thighs. Pulling Tony’s hips down as he raises his own hips to meet him, and Tony moans, loud.

“Quiet,” he whispers, a sudden panic. “I have neighbors.”

Tony just looks at him for a second, as though he can’t quite understand the concept, and then he presses his mouth against Steve’s shoulder, teeth digging into his collar bone. He flattens his body against Steve’s, arc reactor digging into his chest, hips rocking slowly, rhythmically against him, and Steve closes his eyes and exhales sharply to keep from crying out.

He pulls Tony against him, holds him in a tight embrace and kisses him sloppy and desperate and wanting, and Tony’s lips slide against his, Tony’s tongue traces a line on his jaw and he needs this, god he needs this.

He needs Tony flush against him, needs the weight of his body, needs his touch, needs his cock and isn’t that awful, isn’t that shallow and wrong and fuck, god, he needs this.

Tony catches his eye and Steve holds his gaze for a moment before he has to look away. Can’t own up to what they’re doing even as he’s tilting his hips to feel the drag of Tony’s cock against his. Tony grips them harder with his hand, together, tight, and he’s so, so close, he can feel himself rising to that edge.

Steve squirms, not to get free, just to remind himself that he’d have to try, to remind himself that Tony is holding him, grounding him, to feel that and know that and fuck, he’s close.

Steve comes, feeling completely entangled and possessed and fulfilled and so good and it feels better than he remembered. It feels worse.

Steve comes, and everything comes crashing down. All his guilt and his loneliness, and the fact that he doesn’t know. Why he’s here. If Tony still wants him. What this is. 

And then Tony comes with a little grunt, and he rolls over, leans back, exhales.

Steve’s on his feet and into the bathroom before the tears hit.


	18. Chapter 18

He leans over the toilet, stands with one hand against the wall, holding himself up, and cries.

Cries bitter tears of guilt and self pity and loneliness and god damn it. He can’t be doing this right now.

“Should I... go?”

He looks up and there’s Tony leaning just barely into the room and he wants to say no, stay, please, but what right does he have, so he doesn’t.

Tony disappears and Steve stands over the toilet, leans against the wall and breathes, deep, ragged, willing himself to calm down, to go catch him, to tell him to stay. But he just closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the wall and does nothing.

He can catch his breath right after crying. A perk of the serum no one would think to mention. But he still sinks to the floor, sits in front of the toilet with his knees up against his chest.

He can hear Tony in the kitchen, can hear the faucet running. He’s not gone.

He sits there, hugging his knees, until Tony returns.

“I made you some tea,” he says, sinking down next to him, leaning against him. God, he feels so good. Solid. Comforting.

Steve takes the mug, squints at it. “I don’t have tea.”

“I made hot water, then,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth turning up. 

They sit there like that for a few minutes, Steve holding the warm mug and leaning against Tony, who’s leaning against him, and just... being there.

It’s okay.

It feels good.

Tony’s the first one to make any significant movement. And when he does, it’s to reach over with two fingers and slide them over Steve’s abs. They’re – wet. Sticky. And Steve looks down and it strikes him as ridiculous, hilarious, that Tony is just casually wiping the cum off of his stomach. That he had forgotten it was even there.

He laughs at the absurdity of this situation soft, silent, shoulders shaking, and quickly it just turns into feeling good.

Tony smiles, kisses him on the corner of his mouth, and Steve’s chest swells with joy. He can barely believe that Tony’s here. With him. 

“This is disgusting, by the way,” Tony whispers. “You know, sitting on the floor of your bathroom. Naked.”

“I clean it.”

Tony grins, getting up. “Sure ya do.”

Steve takes his hand, even though he doesn’t need any help getting up. He’d forgotten how good that felt. Touching him. Casually.

Their hands remain together for the few steps to his bed.

“So I don’t wanna ruin this,” Tony says, jumping onto the bed, taking up as much space as his body possibly can. “But uh, you _were_ just crying on the floor of your bathroom because we fooled around a little and I feel like it would make me a bad person not to at least ask about it.”

“I wasn’t on the floor,” Steve says, instinctive, defensive.

Tony sighs. “Semantics. Avoiding the question. C’mon. I’m just trying to understand.”

“I –” he’s not sure what happened, this time. Why it was so bad. “I felt guilty.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I always do.”

“After you come?”

That catches him by surprise; is it really that obvious? Is it normal?

“Well,” Tony says, like this is a completely unsurprising thing to have shared. “I guess that explains why you hate sex.”

Steve frowns. “I don’t hate sex.”

“Okay, then, dislike, avoid, stop me when I find a word you like –”

“I’m just not in the mood all of the time,” he says, a little too snappy, even as he knows that all he should feel right now is grateful. That doesn’t stop him. “And it doesn’t help that I know you’ll make me feel even worse for saying that.”

Tony looks like he’s about to say something snarky and then he takes a second, deflates a little. “But you’d still tell me, right? You’d still – I mean, you wanted to do… what we just did, right? You would have told me if you didn’t want to?”

“ _Yes_ , I wanted to,” Steve says, and it really helps, to hear that concern. “I’m not talking about now, I’m talking about all those other times.”

“Alright,” Tony says, “okay, that’s on me. I’ll work on it.”

Steve sits on the corner of the bed. “Thank you.”

“This still doesn’t answer the question of why you were crying.”

Steve shrugs, looking down at his feet. 

“I’m not trying to turn this into a thing,” Tony says. “I just want to understand.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t know if you actually wanted to get back together, or if you just wanted sex. And... I guess I never expected to see you again, and then you showed up, and –”

“Oh my god,” Tony says, a note of actual surprise in his voice, and Steve turns around, quick, to see what’s wrong. “I mean, holy shit, you were actually trying to break up with me?”

“Yes,” he says, answering the question reflexively, not really understanding it. Why Tony’s confused by that.

“You could have let me know.”

“I _did_.”

“Uh, yeah,” Tony says, looking both amused and appalled. “In the middle of a sentence. That’s not a real breakup. That’s like, back off for a few days. If that.”

“It’s been two weeks.”

“In which I have called you repeatedly, waited very patiently for you to call me, asked you to call me, and almost went to ask Peggy why the hell you weren’t calling me. And well, at least now I know why you weren’t calling me.”

“You went to see Peggy?” He feels that in his gut.

“I said _almost_ ,” Tony says. “This seemed like the more direct solution.”

“Oh.” Steve exhales. He shouldn’t feel relieved. He shouldn’t care. She can talk to whoever she wants to.

“So, are we good?”

They’re – no, they’re not. “Why were you such an ass at SHIELD?”

Tony shrugs. “We were doing a bit. Keeping our private lives private.”

“I wasn’t.”

Tony raises his eyebrow, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “So what you’re saying is that you actually _do_ hate me.”

Steve squares his shoulders. “I might.” He sounds like a petulant child. It’s harder to keep a straight face than he’d anticipated.

Tony grins, slowly, like he’s trying not to show how much that amuses him, looking him up and down, just threatening him to crack.

“All right, _Rogers_ ,” he says finally, drawing the word out, an obvious attempt to imitate himself from a few days ago. But it’s just as amused and affectionate as it’s trying to be harsh. He pushes Steve on the shoulder like he’s trying to unseat him. “You wanna go?”

Steve shrugs his hand off, smiling with everything but his lips, determined not to give in that easy.

“No, come on,” Tony says, still grinning. “You wanna fight? Let’s fight.”

It’s so easy to overpower him, to pin him to the bed, and then Tony’s laying there on his back, still struggling, breathing hard, and Steve’s barely exerting any effort at all.

“If I had my suit, things would be a little different,” Tony says, giving one last bit of effort before he gives up, smiling, panting just a bit. “You’re lucky I just came or this would really be turning me on right now.”

Steve grins and kisses him, lets go of Tony’s hands and lowers himself onto his elbows so they can be closer and kisses him.

“You’re not gonna crush me,” Tony says, his hands on Steve’s back, pulling him down further.

And Steve just… gives in. Trusts him.

“See?” 

He shifts his weight off to the side so he’s not really on him at all, wraps his arms around him and buries his face against Tony’s neck and smiles.

They lay like that for a while, and it feels good to hold, to be held. To feel like an equal and still feel comforted, wanted, loved. He needed that. He needs that.

They drift apart, slowly, until they’re just laying side by side, holding hands. Looking up at the ceiling.

“What now?” It’s a broad question. He means – for them. For him. However it applies.

“We could get dressed,” Tony says. “It’d make it harder for me to jump you.”

Steve smiles. “Is that really a concern right now?”

“I’m forward thinking,” Tony says. “Give it like twenty minutes.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t bring a change of clothes,” Tony says. “I didn’t think I’d be taking mine off.”

“Bullshit,” Steve says, with another lazy smile, rolling back to kiss him.

“Hey, you’re the one who jumped me.”

“You started it.”

“How, by looking at you?” Tony rolls his eyes and nudges him with his chin. “C’mon. Up. T-shirt and boxers. I’ll wash em before I give them back, if you want.”

“You want to wear my underwear?”

“Your clean underwear, presumably,” Tony says, swatting at his ass as he gets up. “ I mean, not that they’ve touched anything I haven’t already touched. Or licked. Or…”

“Okay, okay, _fine_ ,” Steve says. He rummages through his drawers, imagining how each of the shirts would look on him. “Wait, what was coming after that last or?”

Tony grins. “Didn’t have anything. Smelled, maybe?”

Steve wrinkles his nose and settles on a plain white t-shirt. “Forget I asked,” he says, tossing the shirt and a pair of black boxer briefs onto his bed. 

“I didn’t say you smelled _bad_ ,” Tony says. “I like the way you smell. Huge turn on.”

He presses the boxer briefs against his face. “Smells like soap and flowers. Which isn’t bad, I guess…”

“You want me to rub them on my balls first?” As soon as Steve says it he’s horrified, thinks he went too far, that he got too comfortable, but Tony just grins, wide, like he’s genuinely _delighted_.

“You’re _dirty_ , Rogers,” he says. “I like it.”

Steve smiles, hoping Tony can’t see just how proud that makes him. Not being called dirty, specifically, just... the way Tony says it. The approval. 

He pulls on his own clothes, sits back down as Tony gets up. The shirt looks good on him. A little too big, just barely, in a way that makes him look lean and cute.

Tony picks up his pants and pulls his cell phone out of the pocket. Squints at it for a moment and then he puts it back, drops the pants, and turns to squint at Steve. “Whatcha thinkin’?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hand, and looks up at him. “Your arms look good in my shirt.”

Tony frowns. “Just my arms?”

Steve smiles, shakes his head. Typical. “You should wear short sleeves more often.”

“I roll them up sometimes.”

“It’s not the same.”

It’s a ridiculously mundane conversation to be having right now. He knows they both know that.

“Okay,” Tony says, rolling his eyes and caressing Steve on the back of the head as he climbs back onto the bed. “So I’ll just change my entire aesthetic for you.”

Steve lays down next to him, and just… smiles. Couldn’t stop smiling if he wanted to. “Thank you.”

Tony’s looking at him with one eye, the other one mostly obscured by the pillow, this lazy smile on his face.

Steve feels so… comfortable. Safe. Wanted.

He feels so lucky.

He puts his hand on Tony’s hip, like they’re slow dancing, and Tony places a hand on top of his.

“I missed you,” Steve says, the words barely a whispered confession between them.

“Good.” Tony flashes him just a second of a cocky little grin. And then he leans toward him until their lips are just touching, but doesn’t quite kiss him. 

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says, and the words are neutral but they’re hot against Steve’s mouth and they recoil with a sour sadness through his chest. “Don’t cut me off without an explanation. I care too much to lose you like that.”

And then Tony kisses him, saves him from needing to respond to that. Doesn’t save him from the wave of shame that rips through him, shame and despair even as he knows that it’s good, that Tony cares, that Tony wants him.

Tony kisses him so gently, their lips barely touching.

Tony kisses him with small little touches and slowly, gradually, that acid in the pit of his stomach goes away. He made a mistake. It’s okay. It’s fixed. Tony’s here. They’re together. That’s what matters.

They alternate between kissing, and touching, and just… smiling. Being there. Together.

He likes this, the soft kisses, the light touches, the undivided attention. Like this more than cuddling while watching TV, more than making out, more than sex. There’s a softer intimacy here, gentler, and the fact that he doesn’t feel anything but comfortable with Tony’s eyes on him makes him feel even more that they’re meant to be together.

He loves watching Tony smile. At him, because of him. 

“Let’s go away,” Tony says. “Just – you, and me, and some… island resort. Just get away from it all.”

Steve smiles, and for a moment he wants that. He brushes a bit of Tony’s hair off of his face and imagines that life.

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone before,” Tony says.

He smiles, wide, that’s a warm feeling spreading through his chest, that’s exactly what he’s always wanted to hear and – “That can’t be true.”

Tony frowns. “What?”

“You’ve been with a lot of other people. You must have felt this way about… someone.” Probably multiple someones.

“I’m taking the fifth.”

“What?”

“Amendment. You know, for someone who’s all about America I’d expect you to have a little better grasp –”

“I don’t care if you have.”

“Obviously, you do.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Steve says, insists. “I know you’ve been with a lot of people who aren’t me.”

He waits as Tony mulls it over, a minute, two.

“I probably thought I did,” Tony says. “But I know better now.”

That’s… not what he wanted to hear. “Just because you don’t feel that way about them now doesn’t mean you never did,” he says. 

And – love counts. Even if it doesn’t last. Even if you don’t have them with you anymore. Doesn’t it?

Tony cocks his head. “You know, most people _like_ that sort of… white lie.”

Steve says, shakes off those thoughts. They don’t matter. “So you have said that to other people.”

“Okay, _now_ I’m pleading the fifth.”

Steve sighs. “Do you really think I’m gonna get jealous? Or are you just trying to get out of this discussion?”

Tony scrunches his face up in confirmation and gives him a condescending kiss on the forehead. “Trust me, it’s not going anywhere good. This subject, I mean. Not, you know, my past transgressions, which shall regardless continue to remain nameless –”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Some other time.”

“Uh, no other time. Suffice to say that I love you a lot and now it’s your turn to say something comparable, or cast me from your bed entirely.”

Steve can’t help smiling, because Tony’s so cute when he gets like that, but he’s still disappointed. He wants to talk about this, wants to think about this, about what it means to love someone and then have that love fade away, about how that happens, but maybe now’s not the right time.

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone else,” Steve says, because it counts, for him. He swallows. That sounds too declaratory, too self assured. And he could have, with Peggy. If they’d gotten the chance. “Or been in the position to –”

Tony presses his hand against Steve’s face. “Shhh.” He says, and it’s clear that his entire palm over Steve’s mouth is a stand in for the traditional one finger. “You had it right the first time.”

“We’re gonna make this work,” he says. “Okay? Whatever it takes. And we’re going to run away together. To a little island with white sand beaches and palm trees and someone to serve us little fruity drinks with little fruity drink umbrellas. And I can feel you shaking your head because I have my hand on your face, in case you’ve forgotten, and I’m very insulted. But I’m also a reasonable person and realize that you might just be struggling to breathe, so when I let go you’re going to repeat back to me everything I just said in a legally binding agreement.”

Steve wasn’t exactly dying for air, but he still takes a moment to suck it in, to smile. Time for one kiss. Two. Three.

“We’ll make this work,” he says, feeling buoyed by the promise of that. “Whatever it takes.”

Tony nods, squeezes his hand, and lets him have a whole twenty seconds to savor that before prompting, in a stage whisper, “fruity drink umbrellas.”

“We’re not running away,” Steve whispers.

“No, of course not. Just for a few years.”

“Good night, Tony.”

“White sand beaches,” Tony adds, and then he groans and gets up. “Fine, I’ll turn the lights off, it’s not like I’m the _guest_ or anything –”

“I love you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Tony says affectionately, flashing Steve his favorite smile before plunging them into darkness.


	19. Chapter 19

He wakes in the middle of the night feeling uncomfortable, but it’s just that Tony’s splayed on top of him, sweating where they’re not sticking together. 

He lays like that for a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide what to do about it.

Tony’s body is hotter than a body should be, and a good portion of Steve’s left side is trapped between Tony and the bed, and he definitely can’t sleep like this.

But on the other hand, it feels kinda nice.

And, he’s not going to let a little something like comfort get in the way of their love. 

Not when he can lie here and feel Tony’s chest rise and fall with each breath. God, he feels good.

It is extremely hot. Tony is surprisingly heavy.

But he’s so cute, his head flopped to the side, his lips just barely parted as he snores. 

It’s a dilemma.

Eventually, he wrestles Tony’s dead weight onto his side and rolls onto his back for some cool air. Leaves one hand on Tony’s ass because he doesn’t want to let go of him entirely.

The next time he wakes up it’s with a gentle shake, and a soft “Steve?”

He recognizes Tony’s voice before he’s fully awake and so he comes out of it gradually. Doesn’t even open his eyes, just rolls onto his back and mumbles. “Yes?”

“Do you have a bathroom?”

He opens his eyes. It’s dark. Tony’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, his face lit by the blue glow of his phone.

“What?”

“You weren’t paying enough attention to me,” Tony whispers.

“I was sleeping.”

“I know.” Tony grins. “You’ll have to work on that.”

Steve uses what feels like too much effort to throw the pillow at him. “It’s over there.”

“Yeah, I got that. I went already.”

“What time is it?”

“Shh. Go back to sleep.”

“You just woke me up.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, clearly too amused by this. “Sorry.”

Steve glares at him and then he gets up and retrieves his pillow, and retrieves Tony’s phone from his hand, and carries both Tony and the pillow back to bed with him.

“God, you’re so cranky at 3 am,” Tony says, grinning, teasing, and he snuggles up against him anyway.

Steve kisses him on the ear, and as far as he’s concerned they’re both asleep again.

Tony squirms underneath him like he can’t quite get comfortable. “Steve?”

“Mhmm?”

“Promise you’ll tell me? I mean, if things get too heavy for you. If you need help. Even if it’s not from me.”

Steve commits to a soft, low, “mhmm.”

“I mean it. I worry when I don’t know. And that’s not – I can’t…” he trails off, takes what feels like a minute or two. “I hate that I can’t protect you from yourself.”

There are a lot of things to say to that. A lot of unfair assumptions that Tony’s making, but he just woke up and he’s not even really awake, and he’s tired, and comfortable. So he just holds him a little tighter and mumbles something that sounds like it would reassuring if there were actual words involved, and they can talk about this tomorrow.

A few minutes later Steve’s almost asleep and Tony’s clearly not. “It’s funny,” he says as Steve struggles to stay awake enough to listen. “People used to say that to me all the time. About protecting me from myself.” 

And, after another pause, his voice fading out as Steve drifts off to sleep, “I guess I didn’t really get it until now.”

******

He wakes up before Tony for the first time that he can remember.

He wakes up underneath him, again, because apparently Tony requires more space than Steve’s bed allows.

He tries to squirm out from under him without disturbing him. Has almost made it, is just tugging the rest of his t-shirt out from under him, when he hears a groan which signals that he’s been unsuccessful

Tony rolls over, opening his eyes just a crack. “Coffee?”

“I don’t have any.”

Tony lets out a massive, theatrical groan, and mumbles “you’re a barbarian,” before rolling over and covering his head with the pillow.

Steve smiles. “I’ll go get some,” he says. “I can tell it’s an emergency.”

“No,” Tony says, reaching back with his hand and waving it about blindly until it collides with Steve’s thigh. “Stay.”

He’s still noticing every little touch, the skin of his thigh tingling as each of Tony’s fingers slides across it. 

There’s really no way to respond to that except to lay back down next to him, to wrap his arms around Tony’s chest, careful to avoid the arc reactor, and hold him. 

After a while he does get up, and Tony grumbles about it a little bit, rolls around in the bed, and occasionally lets out long, tortured groans to let Steve know just how unhappy he is with being awake. It’s adorable. And by the time Steve’s finished making breakfast, he’s sitting at the table, one eye closed, a sleepy grimace on his face.

He’s never really seen him this way. It’s very cute.

Tony puts his spoon in the oatmeal, and he raises a little bit of it almost to his face, and then he wrinkles his nose and stops. “Do you have hot sauce?”

“No,” Steve says, feeling bad for a second, that he didn’t think of that. And then he shakes that off. It’s oatmeal. It’s good oatmeal. If he tried it, he’d like it.

Tony frowns. “Do you have other food?”

“Bread and mayonnaise.” Or he could just try the oatmeal.

Tony grimaces. “I’ll take some bread, I guess.”

“You could just try the oatmeal.” Or maybe his food’s not good enough. Not fancy enough.

Tony makes a face and puts the spoon into his mouth, a little bit. And makes another face. “I’ll take the bread.”

Steve sighs, and then he smiles anyway, because it’s still kind of cute. And gives him two slices of bread. Gets the mayonnaise out, too, “in case you want a sandwich.”

Tony looks at him like he’s a little bit off. “A mayonnaise sandwich.”

“Yeah.”

“Mayonnaise and bread is not a sandwich.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s cheap.”

“You go out to eat,” Tony says. “You brought me to your favorite diner. And you can’t spring for more groceries than bread and mayonnaise?”

“You remember that?” As soon as he says it he knows it’s a stupid response. He shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t be able to be surprised by that. He should expect Tony to pay as much attention to him as he pays to Tony. But Tony is… well, Tony, and he has all of his grand gestures and fancy restaurants and Steve’s never been entirely sure that he measures up.

“Yes, I remember that,” Tony says, with another one of those looks. “It was not that long ago and I have an excellent memory. Now, back to your atrocious food decisions –”

“I buy other groceries,” Steve says. 

“And yet, all you have to offer is…” he looks at the food, raises his eyebrows.

It’s perfectly good food. “It’s perfectly good food.”

“Right,” Tony says. “Not disagreeing. Just… there is not much of it. Not much variety either. I mean, you do eat… vegetables, right? When you’re not with me?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “I didn’t really feel like going out the past two weeks.”

He watches as Tony realizes what he means by that. “I’ll put some mayonnaise on my bread.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, you said it’s good, I’ll try it.”

Steve shakes his head and pours Tony’s oatmeal into his bowl.

“You gonna put mayonnaise on your oatmeal?”

“I don’t put mayonnaise on everything.” It comes out too sharp, too angry. Tony seems shocked.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, immediately. “I don’t know why I – I’m sorry.”

Tony frowns. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” He’s the complete opposite of mad at Tony, but he’s irritated, somehow, didn’t even realize it until now. Maybe at himself. For what?

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not mad at you.”

Tony shrugs and takes a bite of his mayonnaise sandwich and doesn’t hate it. Steve can only tell with that degree of precision what’s happening on his face. He’s more focused on himself, anyway, on why everything is going so well and he’s still upset

He cleans up while Tony buries himself back under the covers. 

“Going back to sleep already?”

Tony just yawns at him, and beckons with one hand. “C’mon.”

Steve can’t really resist his pout, and so he finds himself kneeling on the bed, trying to find enough space to lay down because Tony is, typically, sprawled over most of the bed.

“Didn’t sleep that well,” Tony says. “I kept waking up with you half on top of me. Which was not terrible, actually. Just a little too warm. And you’re a bitch to move when you’re asleep.”

“That can’t be true,” Steve says, nudging him over so he can lay down. “Because I kept waking up with you on top of me.”

“Couldn’t have bought a bigger bed?”

“I didn’t think I’d be sharing it.”

“That’s a depressing outlook on life.”

Steve swallows.

“I mean – I didn’t mean it like that,” Tony says, putting his hand on Steve’s thigh in what’s probably supposed to be a comforting manner.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “You’re probably right.”

“This whole place is depressing, actually,” Tony says, propping himself up on one elbow. “You haven’t bought a single poster, or anything?”

“Can we go back to when I was happy you’re here?”

Tony grins. “Tired of me already?”

Steve shoves him, lightly, on the shoulder. “ _Stark._ ”

“No, no no no,” Tony says. “That didn’t hurt me _at all_. C’mon, you gotta put more hatred into it.”

That’s hard, because the way Tony’s looking at him, full of expectant glee, he can’t really muster up anger.

But still he grabs him, pins him and wrinkles his nose in what he hopes is disgust. “ _Stark_.”

“ _Rogers_ ,” Tony replies, not even coming close to contempt, and he laughs and squirms away. Grabs the pillow and smacks him with it, once, twice, so many times that Steve has to take it away from him.

And then Tony’s on top of him, wrestling it back, and then Tony’s on top of him, and then neither of them is struggling, and then Tony’s on top of him and –

Well.

Then they’re kissing, soft at first, then with building intensity and Steve is enjoying it but he also can’t help worrying that he needs to stop this, if he doesn’t want it to go too far, but oh, no, he doesn’t want to stop it, not yet.

He lets himself go until Tony’s hand slips under his shirt and then he takes control of himself and pulls back just enough to whisper “I don’t want to have sex right now.”

He regrets that immediately, wants to take it back, to let things go a little longer first. Maybe he does want to have sex. He doesn’t _not_ want to have sex.

Tony stops. “That kinda kills the mood, huh?”

Steve nods.

“So uh, how about we just assume that we’re not going to, and if I’m in the mood I’ll ask? And same for you.”

That would be a lot better. He can always tell when he wants it too much to hold back. He nods.

“Okay, we’ll do that then,” Tony says, smiling, giving him one chaste kiss, not making any effort to get off of him. Which is nice.

He may have killed the moment, but he likes what it turns into – cuddling. Sleepy cuddling, on Tony’s part, with occasional cute yawning and even cuter kissing.

Eventually Tony sits up, yawns, and stretches. “Okay, I’m gonna fall asleep any minute now if we don’t… do something. Talk about something.”

“You can sleep,” Steve says.

Tony shakes his head, nudging him affectionately on the shoulder. “Uhh, don’t hate me, but there are some things we should probably talk about.”

And everything was going so well. “Like what?”

Tony shrugs, an ineffectual movement of his shoulders against the sheets. “Like what you want. From me. From life. Whatever.”

Steve takes a moment to process that, but there’s not much to go on. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Okay, from me.”

“I want –” he starts speaking before he knows what to say and the words aren’t coming. What does he want? He wants love. Companionship. He wants to matter, he wants Tony’s undivided attention and affection, all of the time, wants to see him and feel him and that can’t be what Tony is asking. He can’t say that out loud. It’s so selfish. He wants to take care of Tony and watch out for him and be everything for him but Tony doesn’t even seem to need that. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Well, I could’ve told you _that_.”

Steve frowns.

“Okay, I’m sorry. That’s good. You know, that you know. That you don’t know.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to –“ he shakes his head. “You’ve done this maybe a thousand times, but you’re my first.”

Tony nods, a short, sharp motion. “I get that. I do. But from my end it looks like – well, the only time you tell me what you want is when you’re saying you don’t want me.”

“You mean sexually.” It’s not a question, just disappointment.

“Well, yes, but, no. I mean, yeah, you’re not particularly affectionate and maybe that’s my fault for pressuring you but just – feel like I am initiating everything in this relationship. You know?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be difficult. We should just, talk about this. If you’re, you know, committed to this relationship. Because it’s fine if you’re not, just tell me, I’ll go.”

“I am,” Steve says, and he is, but he still feels too defensive.

“So what gives?”

Steve shrugs. He can’t seem to muster up anything more than a few words at a time. He’s being put on the spot. He cares. Too much. He cares.

“I mean, maybe you’re just so wrapped up in the past that you don’t quite realize that you’re… you know, not really engaging a lot with the present.”

He can feel himself closing up, can feel that shift, what used to make him fight and now seems to make him run. “That’s not true.” 

“Okay, name one thing that happened in this millennium,” Tony says, and it sounds little slow, condescending. “Something you weren’t a part of.”

That’s easy. “The bombing of the World Trade Center.”

“Okay, A, proving my point, and B, you just say 9/11.”

“Fine,” Steve says, and this is it, this is the point where he realizes that he’ll never be good enough, that it’ll never work between them. “You’re right. I’m too wrapped up in the past. This isn’t going to work. You should just forget about me.”

Tony lets him sit, lets him stew, and then he shakes his head. “What do you want from me? Just tell me and I’ll do it.”

“I –” he speaks almost instinctively, wanting to take away the pain he can hear in Tony’s voice but ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t fit and he doesn’t want anything, except Tony’s love and attention and he already has that. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me you’re _sorry_ ,” Tony says. “Tell me what it’s going to take so I can talk to you. I don’t want to give up on you. But you’re making this awfully hard. So what gives? What’s the problem?”

The problem. Steve is the problem, obviously, they both know that. Steve is the one who somehow has ruined everything, who keeps doing it. Steve is the person who isn’t the man he was supposed to be, isn’t the man that he used to be and that’s it. That’s what he has to say.

“I don’t like who I am,” Steve says, licking his lower lip like that’ll help to soothe the blow of admitting that out loud.

“Well, _I_ like you,” Tony says, slow, as though he’s afraid to set him off and this is exactly what Steve didn’t want happening.

“I want you to stop treating me like I’m fragile.”

“Then quit acting like you are.”

That shouldn’t stun him. It does.

“And all I said is that I like you. I do.” Tony looks him in the eyes. “How is it that you are still not getting that?”

He licks his lower lip again, the way he used to when it was just split open, and maybe he did that to make it hurt, too. “What happens when I don’t live up to your idea of me?”

Tony quirks his lips. “You’re talking like that hasn’t already happened.”

That shouldn’t make him feel good but it does. It pleases that part of him that wants to feel bad, but there’s more to it, too, this idea that Tony knows he’s not perfect, knows and is somehow still here.

“You’re definitely a huge mess,” Tony says, and Steve swallows but he can’t say anything because he asked for this, and he’s not going to ruin that. “But that doesn’t mean anything. You’ll work it out, _we’ll_ work it out. Or not, whatever, if that’s your thing.”

He manages to get out a soft noise of assent, but it takes some effort.

“All I’m trying to tell you is I’d rather be sitting here with you than in almost any happier situation with someone else.”

Steve nods. Knows he should do more, show what that means to him, but he doesn’t.

“And don’t take this the wrong way,” Tony says, which immediately makes him want to, “but I can’t believe that I’m the first person to notice that you’re not doing okay.”

That’s fair. “You’re not.”

“Who? SHIELD? And they just left you on your own to figure everything out?”

“Peggy,” Steve says. “Maybe SHIELD. I don’t know.”

“I’m still at a loss to understand why no one has, I dunno, helped you deal with it?”

“Peggy did,” Steve says, and it’s not Tony’s fault for assuming that but he’s still bothered that he’d write her off like that. “She helped me with everything. It got better, she stopped pressing me about it.”

“ _This_ is better?” There’s a clear cutting sarcasm in that, and the moment he says it Tony throws his hands in the air. “You told me not to treat you like you’re fragile.”

Steve nods. “This is better,” he says. Shrugs. “Maybe not the last few weeks.”

“You need to talk to someone. A professional someone. I’m not kidding. I can’t help you with this.”

So that’s his reward for opening up? A snap judgement and the order to go tell someone else, because Tony doesn’t have time for his problems? “I’m so glad we had this discussion.”

Tony stays infuriatingly calm. “I’m sorry. I can’t fix this for you.” 

“I don’t _want_ you to,” Steve says, and he suddenly feels almost on the verge of angry tears and that just makes him angrier. “I never asked you to fix me.”

“But I _need to_.”

“Why? So I can be good enough for you?”

“Oh my god,” Tony says, and rolls his eyes, exasperated, like Steve is an annoying kid and Steve balls his hands into fists because there’s no words for how that makes me feel. “You won’t talk to me. You won’t fuck me. You’re distant and sad and angry and I can’t do anything about it and I can’t stand watching you dig yourself into a hole and I feel like I’m gonna get sucked in. And I love you, and that means I’m invested, I’m not giving up on you, but it also makes it so hard. It hurts, you know that? Worrying about you, worrying about what you might do and… I’m turning my life around. I’m gonna make this work. I just can’t do that if you’re just going to act like it’s okay to be depressed, if you’re not even willing to try to meet me halfway.”

Steve’s not sure what to say to that. Is sure that he’s not angry anymore, that’s turned into a pit in his stomach, and he’s not sure what to say.

“I’m just saying, there are two of us in this relationship. You know?”

He nods, nods harder until he feels like he has to say something. Licks his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be _sorry_ ,” Tony says. “I want you to do something about it.”

“Like what? Promise you that that everything’s gonna be okay? Because I can’t do that.” He swallows, blinks, tries not to feel pathetic and Tony leans against him, chin on his shoulder, and sighs.

“No,” he says. “Obviously not. I just think you should go talk to someone.”

“A professional someone,” he adds. “But you should also talk to me. Because I can’t just keep guessing until I get it right.”

Everything feels better with Tony against him. Everything feels better with Tony, period.

He exhales, slow, letting go of the anger he wants to feel. "Okay."

“You know, you’ve never told me about the war.”

He shrugs, still leaning into him. “Not much to tell.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Really.”

“Well, I want to hear about it.”

Steve isn’t sure he wants to talk about it. Isn’t sure he wants to talk about it now, right now, when he’s already a little upset. Isn’t sure he can, that the words won’t sound wrong coming from his mouth.

Tony shifts his weight, looks almost uncomfortable. “I mean, I get it. I’m not the guy people trust with… well, anything they don’t absolutely need to, really.” He twists the side of his mouth into a smile and Steve knows he’s being guilted but it’s clear there’s some hurt there too.

He’s read enough to know that people used to think of Tony as a screwup. Before today he’d never gotten any sign that Tony still feels that way.

Tony’s taking his silence the wrong way. He can see that in his eyes, the way he’s trying so hard to look disinterested. Steve doesn’t want to hurt him. He’d never want to do that.

“I don’t regret anything we did,” he says. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

Tony snorts.

“I don’t. We did a lot of good.”

“You killed people.”

This isn’t where he’s expecting it to go, but there’s no accusation in that statement so he lets it go. “Only people who chose to fight us. Hydra. White supremacists. Murderers.”

“Did you ever kill anyone with your bare hands?” Again, it’s innocent, curious, and he didn’t expect to talk about this but somehow it’s easier than talking about the people he knew.

“Where’d that come from?” 

“I’ve seen you fight,” Tony says. “And I’ve heard shoot. You’re not exactly a crack shot.”

“I wore gloves. And I don’t know. We didn’t exactly determine cause of death.” That sounds too defensive. “I probably have.”

“That’s heavy.”

Steve shrugs. “That’s war.”

“Well,” Tony says, sighing, heavily. “I can see how that would weigh on you.”

He could go along with that. 

It’s too dishonest. 

“That’s not what bothers me,” he says. “I almost never think about it.”

Tony, as he could have guessed, doesn’t take that well. “You’ve killed people with your bare hands and it doesn’t bother you?”

“Do you feel bad about killing the Chitauri?”

“No,” Tony says. “They were trying to enslave us. Also, they’re aliens.”

“A life’s a life.”

“But a human life –”

“A human who was complicit in the genocide of millions of people? Who maybe did it because they were hateful and bigoted and evil? Or maybe just did it because they were told to? Because they didn’t have the ability to look at what they were doing and think it was wrong? People who knew who I was, knew what I stood for, knew I could kill them in a second and still thought it was worth giving their lives trying to stop me, so Hydra could kill and enslave and control everyone else?” He shakes his head, lip curling up in disgust. “I don’t regret any of that.”

Tony looks at him for a long moment before whistling, low. “I don’t know if I should be scared, or turned on.”

Neither. It’s just what he does. Did. “Don’t tell me you would have done any different.”

“No,” Tony says. “No, I’d be there right next to you, but –”

“But what?”

“It’s war,” Tony says. “It’s different. I mean, you hear about guys come back and they can’t – I mean, that’s gotta fuck you up. It’s – different.”

“Only difference is when we beat the Chitauri it was over. It was still a battle.” 

Tony shakes his head. “And that’s – a _big_ difference,” he says. “Being able to feel like it’s over, to feel like you could start feeling safe again. I mean, something about that’s gotta weigh on you. Something you did, something you didn’t do, I don’t know.”

“I don’t regret anything we did,” Steve repeats. “It was all justified.”

“So what _do_ you regret?”

He should have been expecting that question. It still catches him unprepared. “Bucky,” he says, breathes, before he gets a chance to think.

He shakes his head, tries to pretend that he didn’t admit that, that he can just move on and not think about that. “I –” Bucky, who trusted him. “Lots of things.”

That’s not right either.

Tony puts an arm around his shoulders and it is soothing and so is his voice as he asks, gently, “Bucky?”

“He was my best friend,” Steve says. He was his everything.

“I know.”

“I killed him,” he says, and it’s true and he knows he’s not supposed to admit that but it is. “I made him follow me. And he made his choice, but –”

He smiles, feeling the tears begin to pool in his eyes. “He was always looking out for me. Even after the serum. He’d never make me go it alone. I could have left him behind and he wouldn’t have fallen, and –”

“I led other people to their deaths, and I don’t cry about them,” he says, inhaling through his nose in a way that sounds too much like a sniffle. He’s not letting himself blink, can’t let himself blink. “What makes him so special?”

He loses it then, loses what’s left of his composure as the tears fall, hot and heavy, down his face. He can’t do anything to stop it, can’t do anything at all but sit there and let the tears stream down his face and hate himself, hate himself so much.

He lets Tony pull him against his chest, lets Tony hold him and rub his back and rock him as he shakes and cries and shakes. He just lets it happen, lets himself focus on Bucky, on what they had and what he’s lost, so he doesn’t have to think of what he’s become.

He cries for Bucky’s life, for everything he missed out on. He cries because Bucky never even wanted to fight. Because it’s all his fault.

He cries for himself, and then he cries because he’s crying for himself, because he’s being selfish and horrible and because he can’t stop it.

He cries because he’s crying. Because he’s broken.

“It gets better,” Tony says, low, serious. “It never goes away, but it gets better. When mom and dad died I thought I’d never…” He doesn’t finish that, just squeezes Steve’s hand. “But, time helps. ”

“I know,” Steve says, whispers, and he does know. But it still helps to know that Tony’s lost people too. 

Steve’s been through this before.

But he hasn’t. It’s not the same. He’s never been responsible before.

He cries until he doesn’t need to anymore, and nothing feels resolved, nothing feels better but the tears have stopped coming and that’s something. Like he’s emptied out the bucket of tears and can start collecting them again.

He sniffles and tries to regain his calm. Lets Tony hold him up until he feels up to supporting himself. Wipes his face on his shirt, wipes his nose on his shirt and it’s disgusting but Tony’s still holding him close, kissing his hair even though he’s gross.

Eventually he feels good enough that he can stop letting himself be held and start holding Tony too, can turn it into an embrace. And he can't quite meet Tony's eye but he still gets a little comfort from the way that Tony is looking at him. And he closes his eyes, kisses him, gently, hesitantly.

He waits for Tony to hesitate, to tell him that he’s not attractive like this, that their intimacy is conditional on him being happy and well-adjusted but he doesn’t.

He’s not sure what he wants, what this is about but maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s just his touch.

It’s just the whisper of Tony’s breath on his lips and Tony’s lips beneath his tongue and Tony’s tongue against his teeth and – 

It feels good. He feels good, feels the relief that crying didn’t give him, feels like his lungs can fill with air, like he is going to be okay.

And there's a part of his brain that even now wants to remind him that he isn't, that nothing is better, but he has Tony now and he didn't have him two days ago and that might not count for much but it helps.

He closes his eyes and just holds Tony’s face against his, breathing heavily, and Tony touches his cheek and it makes him smile. 

He's still embarrassed, still not sure why he cried, why he couldn't even talk about Bucky for a minute without breaking down when sometimes it feels like it's all he thinks about. 

Still worried that this is all Tony sees of him, the part of him that is drowning, worried that even if he wants to he can't stop reinforcing that.

He lays down and Tony follows his lead, rests his head on Steve's chest. It feels nice. ls nice.

They lay there like that so long that he finds himself drifting off, but then it's never that hard for him to sleep. He tries to shake it off, has to stay awake because Tony is here, and because he just slept, and then he realizes that what jolted him back awake was Tony snoring.

So he just stretches, and smiles, and leans his chin against Tony’s head, and lets himself relax.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the past few chapters, plus this one, plus part of the next chapter were initially all supposed to be one chapter, but it turns out I am a verbose mofo. Basically, it kinda got away from me. And maybe I could have tried to rein it in, but I've always felt that the fun of fanfic is in the moments that could be summed up in a sentence but, because someone cared to write them and because people care to read them, don't have to be.

He wakes up about an hour later, becoming aware first of a comfortable weight on his chest, and then of an arm around his side, and then somehow his brain connects those clues and he realizes with a sudden deep contentment that Tony is still curled up around him. 

He shifts slightly, extending his legs carefully into a satisfying stretch, and then he closes his eyes again, resting his face against Tony’s hair.

There’s something about being slept on, being slept with – that weight of another person anchoring him. It’s calming.

He doesn’t manage to go back to sleep but he doesn’t get up either. He finds himself just laying there, watching Tony sleep. Admiring him up close, taking in his face. Wanting to know it for the little parts of what it is, all of the pores and bumps and divots, and for what it becomes as a whole, the personality that shines through even as he’s laying almost completely still. 

He’s so beautiful.

Tony shifts a little, and then he makes a small noise, and Steve thinks maybe he should look away before he wakes up, pretend he hasn’t just been staring at him, but he doesn’t. There’s a little rush in that, feeling like he doesn’t have to hide his adoration.

Tony just looks up at him, slow, blinks. Smiles. “We should go to sleep again,” he says. Yawns.

Steve frowns. “Are you getting sick?”

Tony shakes his head, his hair rubbing itself into a mess against Steve’s shirt. “Say ‘why?’”

Okay. He smiles. He can play along. “Why?”

“Because,” Tony says, looking sleepily into Steve’s eyes. “I like waking up next to you.”

“That would have been cuter if you followed the script,” he adds, almost immediately.

Steve grins. “I’m sorry.”

Tony struggles to push himself up so he can kiss him on the side of the mouth, his hand pressing a little too hard into Steve’s chest, but he doesn’t even care. “I guess I’ll forgive you.”

“You _guess_?”

“If you’ll make it up to me,” Tony says.

“What’d you have in mind?” He’s prepared to laugh, prepared for something ridiculous and cute. Prepared to talk his way out of it.

“How about a massage?”

“Oh,” Steve says. That sounds nice, actually. “Okay. Right now?”

Tony yawns again, leaning a little more heavily against Steve’s chest. “Give me a few minutes. I’m comfortable.”

****

“I’ve never given anyone a massage before.”

Tony shrugs. "Nothing to it. Just do this –" he squeezes Steve's arm, "but all over. Start with my shoulders. Like you’re trying to flatten me out.”

Steve nods. Pretends that was at all helpful.

Tony pulls off his shirt, prostrates himself on the bed, and then he wiggles out of his boxers too.

And now he feels even less prepared.

Steve just kneels next to him and puts his hands on Tony’s shoulders. That feels wrong. He straddles him instead. Careful to make sure he’s not sitting on Tony’s bare ass, to make sure most of his weight is on his knees.

Grabs him firmly by the shoulders and presses down with his thumbs.

“Ow, shit no, not that hard,” Tony says immediately, arching up underneath him. Making firm contact with everything that had been carefully hovering above him. “Fuck, like twelve percent of that.”

Steve swallows. It’s okay. He’s not used to - it’s okay. Tony’s okay. He checks. A couple times. Until Tony’s rolling his eyes and threatening him.

He tries again.

"Oh, yeah," Tony moans. "Just like that. God that feels good."

Steve still feels awkward, not sure how long to focus on one place, where to move, when, but he gets used to it as he goes. Settles into a rhythm. Starts to feel like he’s good at it.

Tony moans with almost every other touch and sometimes it seems like innocent pleasure but mostly it sounds dirty, makes him think of how Tony moans when he fucks him.

He doesn’t want to admit it but it’s turning him on, his breath getting a little quicker, and he tries to be proper and composed but it’s hard to when everything about this is making him want to undress and fuck him, now. Give him a real reason to moan like that.

He can’t believe that thought crosses his mind. It’s… inappropriate. There’s a time for that, maybe, but it’s not now.

He bends over and presses his lips to Tony’s neck anyway. Continues massaging his back, moves down his sides and kisses his spine. Isn’t sure if there’s a line that he’s crossing, but Tony seems to be enjoying it and that gives him comfort.

He pauses when he gets to Tony’s butt, lets his hands caress but keeps his mouth in more neutral territory. Pauses entirely, because just having his hands there is turning him on even more.

There’s a few seconds silence, and then. “You have my permission to do whatever the hell you want to my ass,” Tony says. “But if you don’t massage my legs at some point I’m gonna be disappointed.”

Steve swallows and moves his hands down to Tony’s thighs. Realizes that he’s getting hard and his crotch is very close to Tony’s knee and he straightens up, quickly. He really wants to fuck him. That’s a good thing, right? That’s how he’s supposed to feel. Just… not now. Not when they should be intimate in a different way.

“Whatever the hell you want,” Tony repeats, bending one knee to brush his foot against Steve’s butt. “Forget the legs.”

Steve moves his hands to Tony’s calves and Tony sighs, heavily, the exasperated, impatient kind of sigh.

Maybe he’s over thinking it.

“Okay,” Steve says, his mouth twitching into a little smile. “I get it.”

“And?”

Steve smiles. There’s a sort of power to this that excites him, that he has Tony stretched out underneath him and an invitation to do whatever he wants, to see him, feel him. He runs his hand up Tony’s thigh to where it hits the generous curve of his ass and down the slope of his hip. And then he does the same on the other side, his hands pressing and smoothing as though he’s shaping Tony’s ass himself. As if he could have made something so wonderful.

He spreads Tony’s cheeks and brushes his thumb over the soft, pink puckered skin and his cock jumps. Sparse, dark hair radiates out in a circle from what can’t even be fairly called a hole yet, and Steve likes, in particular, the way that his tongue will leave those hairs laying flat on the white skin, framing an entrance for his cock.

Tony clears his throat and Steve takes that to mean he should go as slowly as he wants.

“Patience,” he says, lowering his face to Tony’s back, breathing against his skin and licking up his spine.

“Asshole,” Tony says.

“That wasn’t very nice.”

He doesn’t have to see Tony’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes. “It wasn’t an insult, it was a suggestion.”

“That’s not very romantic,” Steve says, feeling almost giddy, playful, and maybe this isn’t very sexy of him, but it’s fun.

“Asshole.”

He licks Tony’s neck, savoring the shiver, and breathes into his ear, trying to make it sound commanding, sexy. “What’d I just say?”

“That time it was an insult,” Tony says, clearly only amused, turning to share a grin and a kiss with him.

The angle is a little uncomfortable but it’s worth it to kiss him while getting to feel Tony’s back – Tony’s ass – underneath him, and when he lets Tony’s mouth go he kisses up his jaw, down his neck.

Tony grunts, halfway between contentment and impatience and Steve smiles with lips still pressed against his skin.

“I’m getting there,” he says, caressing over Tony’s trapezius muscles, down to what he thinks are the latissimus dorsi, and then to his quadriceps, skipping entirely over an important section because he loves the sound of Tony’s protest.

He restrains himself at first, settles for pressing his lips against Tony’s thighs, but he quickly makes his way back upward, sucking, licking, spreading Tony’s cheeks with his hands and now the moans sound like they’re in just the right context.

He didn’t realize how much he missed this. Doesn’t know how he could miss something so simple and maybe disgusting as tasting him like this, but he did. He closes his eyes and presses his face into Tony’s ass, lets the moans wash over him and god it feels good.

Once Tony’s slick and open and gasping, he grasps him by the ass, spreads him until his asshole is as open as it’ll go. He thrusts between his cheeks, pressing down with one hand so that the head of his cock almost catches as it passes over the wet, puckered hole, so it feels like he could be inside of him at any second.

“Do you have lube?”

“Do _I_ have lube?” Tony asks, sounding almost offended. “At _your_ apartment?”

Shit. “I don’t have any.”

“You don’t have any lube.” There’s definitely some judgement there.

“I didn’t think I would be –” 

“You don’t have any lube,” Tony repeats. “Nothing. Butter? Olive oil? No, never mind, that’s a horrible idea.”

Steve thrusts between his hand and Tony’s cheeks again, softer, experimental. “This works for me,” he says, mostly joking.

Tony just rolls onto his side. “On your back.”

“What?”

“Get on your back. Lay down.”

Steve hesitates.

“You just went down on me, the least I can do is return the favor.”

Steve complies in an instant, is on his back before he can let himself fully think about it. Tony towers above him for a moment, slipping him out of his boxers and then his shirt, and Steve tries to seem cool and nonchalant even as he forgets to help by lifting up his arms because he’s too busy thinking about what’s about to happen.

And then Tony wraps a hand around his dick, licks along the length of it and he thinks he misinterpreted.

But then Tony moves down, his tongue and then his lips caressing Steve’s balls, and then he goes even lower, sucking on the skin just beneath them and Steve’s breathing gets a little heavier, already anticipating the moment when Tony’s tongue slides just a little lower.

It’s different than he’s been imagining. Better. Less. The way Tony likes it he’d think it was mind blowing, but it’s not, really. It’s just good. Sensitive, pleasant, kind of dull. Not at all like his dick.

But the implication – that this is sexual, that his asshole is sexual, something to be licked and teased and… penetrated. That has him rock hard.

He doesn’t even consider that it’s gross, not right away, he’s just thinking that it’s like when he’s done it to Tony. Except Tony washed himself first, he’d never surprised Tony when he wasn’t ready, even just now it’s clear Tony was somehow expecting this and god, he can’t believe he’s letting this happen.

He jerks back, breaking the contact, almost hitting his head on the wall as he props himself up on his elbows. “I didn’t wash – I’m not clean,” he blurts, heart pounding as he realizes just how disgusting he must be.

Tony looks up at him, tongue deliberately still hanging out of his mouth, and then, slowly, he laughs, soft at first, and then he’s leaning against Steve’s thigh and shaking and Steve still feels a little disgusting but it’s hard to watch Tony laugh and not smile.

“I mean it,” he says, the importance of his statement somewhat undercut by his slight laugh.

“You took a shower before breakfast,” Tony says. “It’s been a couple hours. And, more importantly, I am the one with my face in your ass, so I feel like I am uniquely qualified to make a call here. You have nothing to worry about.“

Steve swallows. A shower isn’t enough, is it? There’s – gotta be more that you have to –

“Face in ass,” Tony repeats, . “Trust me. Okay?”

Steve exhales heavily. Okay. He can – okay.

“You need to _relax_ ,” Tony says, pressing his teeth into Steve’s thigh. It feels surprisingly good. “Okay? This isn’t special.”

Not to him.

Tony seems to catch himself, rolls his eyes. “Not like _that_ ,” he says, and then licks over the spot where his teeth just were. “I meant, it’s just you and me having a little fun and there’s absolutely nothing to get so _tense_ about.”

“I wasn’t tense.”

“You weren’t.” Tony nods. “And that was great. And now you are, and this is less great, do you see what I’m saying?”

Steve nods.

“So you want me to keep going.”

“I –”

“With the assurance that you smell and taste amazing, and I just want to bury my face between your legs forever and this little conversation we’re having is me exercising self control – which, by the by, might want to get a picture of because I hear it doesn’t happen often –”

“Okay,” he says, with a little laugh that does manage to relax him a little. “Okay, you convinced me.”

“So you like it?”

Yes. Yes, absolutely yes. “Mhmm.”

“So you want me to keep going.”

“Yes.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

And that seems a little excessive, because Steve has already told him it’s okay. “What you were doing before.”

“Well,” Tony says, grinning up at him. “I guess we’ll work on the dirty talk later.”

Oh. He feels suddenly all the more naked as he realizes what Tony was actually asking, disappointed and just a little embarrassed because he could have. Said something sexual. About having his asshole licked. Probably.

Oh. Yes, he could say something sexual about this. Can feel something sexual, can feel Tony’s facial hair against his skin, rough, contrasted with the soft, slick slide of his tongue, and oh, boy, this is good.

It’s not just that, it’s also Tony’s hands caressing his thighs and his abs and even up to his chest, Tony’s hands lifting underneath him and pulling him flush against his mouth. It’s how Tony presses his teeth into Steve’s thigh as a hand slides over his cock and down his side, and he shivers and oh, yes. More.

Then Tony pushes against him with his tongue, hard, like he’s trying to get inside of him and Steve moans without meaning to, breath rushing involuntarily into his lungs, as the rest of his muscles clench.

“Relax,” Tony whispers, breath hot against his balls and he’s almost shaking just from the thought of Tony’s tongue inside of him. God, he wants that.

“Hold yourself open for me,” Tony says, guiding Steve’s hands to his ass. He pulls gently apart, his face growing hot because this is a whole new level of participation.

Tony licks him again, and then his tongue gets hard against him and he manages to stay relaxed and open up for him, precum dripping on his abs, his breath coming in short little bursts and –

He’s not ready for Tony to back off, before he can make an assessment. Before he knows if he even knows how it feels. Is startled when Tony’s tongue slides away and brushes over his finger, when Tony sucks on his knuckle, knows that Tony licking his finger should be less sexual, at least a little. But it doesn’t feel that way. Not at all.

Tony takes his time, exploring with tongue and hands and by the time he returns to Steve’s slick asshole he’s almost forgotten what it felt like to have something forced into him. He gasps as the memory becomes reality again, blushes as he feels his muscles loosening in ways they’re not supposed to.

And Tony’s hands feel like they’re everywhere, anywhere, rough and then soft in just the right moments, caressing him, supporting him, and Steve feels like he’s given himself completely over to him.

Tony’s tongue enters him again and again, short little thrusts that seem to get deeper and he tries to decide how he feels about this, how it feels, but he’s not sure, it’s strange, it’s like nothing he’s felt before, but he can’t say if it feels good, just that he needs it to keep happening.

It feels okay, for sure, at least okay. But what really gets Steve is the idea of penetration, the pure gut-punch feeling of being taken.

Tony backs off again, puts his hands over Steve’s and pushes them apart, just a bit. He’d forgotten he was supposed to be doing that.

“D’you think you could take my finger?”

Steve swallows, can hardly stand how hot that sounds. There’s an ‘okay,’ dancing on his lips, he wants to say it, but it keeps getting stuck between what he wants and what he should want and the absolute pleasure in his groin at the thought of that and the absolute shame he knows he would feel after.

But he’s already going to feel that, anyway.

“Next time,” Tony says.

“Okay,” he says, finally, but it has a different meaning now.

Tony just keeps licking, sucking, keeps pressing his tongue inside of him and biting up his thighs and running hands over him, mixing in brief, firm pressure on his cock which reminds him how much his body is enjoying this. And then Tony stops, and he automatically makes a noise of protest.

“My jaw can only take so much,” Tony says, with an apologetic grin, moving it from side to side with an exaggerated motion like he’s trying to stretch it out. 

He crawls up against Steve’s side, presses against him, kisses him, hard and deep and Steve can’t taste himself on Tony’s lips but he imagines that he could and that’s almost all it takes.

And now he gets a chance to run his hands over Tony’s body, to run his hands along the length of his cock, and oh, it feels so good in his hand.

Tony’s lips ghost against his, hovering close but not quite touching, his nose brushing against Steve’s nose and against his cheek, breath hot against his lips. Steve’s not sure if he wants the kiss or if he just wants to keep wanting it, to stay caught up in the suspense of almost. Knows he wants to keep feeling Tony’s hot, heavy breath on his face. Knows he’s too focused on his hand on Tony’s cock and his cock in Tony’s hand to exert the effort necessary to kiss, even to close his lips. And so he breathes against Tony’s cheek, Tony’s neck, and Tony does the same, feels the same, must be feeling the same thing that he is and isn’t that everything he could want for him right now, to know this same magnificent feeling, to share it.

Tony finishes first, Tony whose hands have been all over Steve’s body, who has been giving rather than receiving for most of this time and that thought, that realization, that Tony gets pleasure just from Steve’s enjoyment pushes him speedily past the finish line.

And then.

And then he inhales, and exhales, just a heavy as before but now the effortless rhythm is gone, now it’s a controlled, measured breath.

And then he doesn’t feel so great about what they just did. About the disgusting thing he just let Tony do to him.

Then it seems like a bad idea.

Tony cups Steve’s face between his hands, looks him in the eyes. “Hey,” he says. “I love you.” And that doesn’t really help, but maybe it does, the words swell through him like warmth and it’s not great but it’s not terrible either.

He wraps his arms around Tony’s back, pulls Tony’s warm, naked body tight against his, holds him close and when he does that it’s hard to remember why this could possibly be wrong.

Except that the weird slick sensation has stopped being arousing, and is quickly getting uncomfortable and a little itchy.

Tony kisses him on the neck, making him shiver. “Shower with me?”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, it’s a modern invention, it’s like water, and then you –”

“I know what a shower is.”

Tony wrinkles his nose. “Are you sure? I mean, I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but you kinda smell –”

“Hey,” Steve says, indignant. “You just told me I didn’t.”

“Okay, fine,” Tony says. “It’s not like you’re going out anywhere.”

Going out. Oh no. He completely forgot.

“I have to go,” he says, sitting up too fast. “I promised Theresa I’d meet her for dinner.”

“Well,” Tony says. “All the more reason to shower.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Yes, but… _now_?”

“I – what time is it?”

Tony glances at his watch. “Eleven thirty.”

“In the morning?”

“No, it’s dark outside,” Tony says. “Yes, in the morning. Which you could have realized had you glanced at even one of these two windows. If you were trying to get rid of me, lunch plans would have been a better idea.”

“Oh,” Steve says, exhaling. “Okay. Good.”

“I must be really boring you if you think it’s that late.”

“No,” Steve shakes his head. “We just slept a lot, and –”

“Shh,” Tony says. “I’m teasing.”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you. I don’t want you to leave.” Ever, if he could help it.

“So relax,” Tony says, stretching. “Better yet, cancel, and spend the whole day in bed with me.”

“I’m not canceling,” Steve says, and Tony pouts, looks up at him through his eyelashes.

“I’m still not canceling.”

“So bring me with you.”

“I can’t do that.” It’s the obvious answer, like he’s saying that the sky is blue. 

And yet Tony frowns. “Why not?”

“Because it’s – because –” he knows he can’t do that. He just can’t figure out how to express it. “You’d attract too much attention.”

“So I’ll wear a baseball cap and glasses.”

“That’s not –” he trails off.

“Going to work? Of course it will. It always does.”

Steve swallows and he shouldn’t say this but the thought of bringing Tony along, the implications of bringing Tony along and what she’ll think, well – “that’s not the problem.”

“God,” Tony says, sitting up. “That really bothers you, doesn’t it? The thought that anyone might think you’re fucking another man.”

“It’s not about you.”

“No, obviously. I have enough self esteem to realize that I’m not an embarrassing person to be seen with.”

Steve’s not sure what to say to that.

“So what gives? It’s the 21st century now, you can be gay, it’s okay.”

Steve shrugs. “Okay.”

“Did something happen to you?”

No. That’s the problem. Nothing’s ever happened to him and he’s still scared. Always been a coward.

“Steve?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing ever happened,” he says. “Ever. I made sure of that. I was a coward, and I still am. I just don’t have an excuse anymore.”

Tony sighs, rolls his eyes like he’s getting tired of him. “Okay, let’s try that again without the bullshit.”

It’s a fair point, probably.

Tony just stares at him, expectant.

Steve shrugs. “I fought a lot of guys, for a lot of reasons. And I took more than I could sometimes but I always knew that they would stop. Eventually. That no matter what I did they wouldn’t kill me. Not intentionally. A lot of ‘em wouldn’t even hurt me that bad. Just toy with me a little.”

Tony frowns at him like he’s on the tip of asking where this is going, but he doesn’t 

“I knew of lots of guys who weren’t afraid and nobody did anything to them. But I knew of guys who got killed, too. And I just… couldn’t trust that it would be okay. I knew that if it got out that I was _queer_ , that one day I’d get in a fight and the other guy just... wouldn’t stop.”

He doesn’t look at Tony because he doesn’t want to see pity and he doesn’t want to see derision, and he’s not sure which one would bother him more.

“I know it’s not true, anymore, but I still feel it. I wish I didn’t.”

There’s a long pause and it makes him really hear the words and they sound so irrational. He shakes his head. “It’s okay. You can come with me.”

“Great,” Tony says, kissing him on the forehead and getting up, stretching. “Shower with me?”

“I –” Steve’s thrown by the sudden resolution. They’re supposed to – well, what, exactly? Talk until he starts crying? “My shower can’t fit both of us.”

“Don’t be a negative nancy,” Tony says, tugging on his arm.

“ _I_ barely fit.”

“Trust me,” Tony says, pulling him and pressing him toward the shower, into the shower, stepping in with him so they’re both wedged against the walls, pressed chest to chest, almost no room to maneuver.

Tony’s the first one to smile but Steve gives in and laughs first, and Tony grins and kisses him.

“I refuse to admit that you were right,” Tony whispers.

So Steve turns the water on and grins as Tony yelps at the cold. And then Tony digs his fingers into Steve’s shoulder and Steve laughs again.

Tony runs his hands over Steve’s hips in a way that ten minutes ago would have been sexual but now is only sweet, caring.

Steve smiles and rests his chin on Tony’s shoulder, against his neck.

He can’t imagine how he thought it was a good idea to break up with him, how he can manage to be uncomfortable about loving him. How he’d ever thought he could go on without Tony in his life, now that he’s had him in it.


	21. Chapter 21

Tony orders chinese takeout for lunch, and Steve makes him hide in the bathroom as he answers the door because he refuses to start a rumor about Tony Stark hanging out at his apartment.

He’s a little concerned that Tony will get bored. There’s not much to do at his apartment, after all. But that winds up being unfounded. Aside from a few, companionable lulls, they don’t run out of things to talk about.

He loves the way Tony argues. About things that aren’t important, and sometimes things that are. How he acts completely dismissive, like he isn’t listening to a word Steve’s saying, like he’s the only one with an opinion. But then he’ll make it clear that he is listening, a little word or a glance and Steve melts.

This is what Steve hated about him at first, when they first met. Before he knew Tony. Because Tony’s the kind of person he loves or hates, and when he met him he was thinking of him as that, as a type of person, and now he knows him and everything, even the frustration he feels, all of that comes back to loving him.

He loves Tony when Tony’s being the cocky asshole. He’s been won over by the bravado and charm and snark. But he only loves that because of the moments when it falters, when Tony gets caught off guard. Particularly if it’s because of something he just said.

That’s when Tony looks at Steve like there’s something special about _him_ , about the person he is even without his perfect body.

And that’s unfair, probably, because when Steve looks at Tony he sees brown eyes and soft lips, the swell of his chest and the curve of his biceps, his hips, his thighs. He couldn’t separate the physical from the intellectual. But that’s who Tony is, that’s who Tony always has been, the body he was born with. It’s different.

He loves Tony’s fingers, the way they look when they’re curled into a fist against his cheek, supporting his face as he gazes at Steve with a private smile that makes him feel at once special and uncomfortable, even as he knows he’s smiling back in the exact same way.

He loves the curve of Tony’s back, and the hair visible on his legs when they’re crossed on his bed. If anyone had asked him, if there was anyone who might think to ask him, he’d say that’s what surprised him the most. About being in a relationship. How physical it is.

His still emotions seem so inextricably intertwined with his senses. Loving Tony feels and smells and looks like something to him. The memory of Tony’s weight against his chest, of Tony’s fingers along his sides.

And when he thinks about happiness it’s this, the two of them together on his bed, soft and comfortable and relaxed. And maybe kissing, maybe getting to feel Tony’s legs or his hips or his chest, maybe his lips against Tony’s shoulder, maybe licking his bicep. Is it strange how much he likes the likes the feeling of Tony’s skin against his tongue?

He thinks about sex. That’s the next logical step. Focuses his thoughts on his crotch, thinks about getting hard and being driven by that need and he feels a slight distaste and nothing more. Thinks about having Tony spread out underneath him, or Tony on top of him, thinks about having free access to whatever he wants and it just seems like… too much effort. Like eating ice cream on a full stomach.

And he feels a little like he would after that, a little bit bloated and heavy, a little bit unattractive and none of that feels like wanting to have sex.

But he knows he can want it, because he did want it just this morning, wanted it bad and that’s a good sign, right? Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it just hasn’t been long enough. Maybe Tony’s too impatient. Maybe it’s not a real problem.

Well, not that bad. But he wanted it, at least.

No, it is a problem. It’s his problem. This is his dream. Someone who isn't just begrudgingly willing to have sex with him, someone who actually actively wants to suck him off and wants his cock, someone who seems like he might actually really love him, if not in spite of the serum then at least not entirely because of it.

And he can't even –

“Okay,” Tony says. “At least pretend to be listening.”

“I was listening.” It’s instinctive, a little white lie and he racks his brains for what Tony was just saying. Something about clean energy.

Tony grins. “It’s adorable when you lie.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Steve says, caught up in the self-chastisement and the instinctive embarrassment of being read so easily, trying to switch into something lighthearted and fun, something Tony wants, but failing. Settling on a halfhearted “I can prove it.”

“That’s cute. Really. You should do it more often. We could incorporate it into our sex life. You could tell me what a small dick I have.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and then he catches himself and decides to frown. “You lost me there.”

“What?”

“I’m confused.”

Tony frowns. “About what?”

“Well, you said you want me to lie to you.”

“Not all the time,” Tony says, looking at him like he’s terribly dense. “Just for fun sometimes.”

“I got that,” Steve says. “I’m just... not sure why you want me to say your penis is small.”

“Because –” Tony frowns. “Well it’s not as funny if you have to explain it…”

“I mean, I thought you wanted me to _lie_ ,” Steve says, feeling just a little too self-satisfied, grinning so big he feels like his mouth is trying to escape from his face, automatically ducking his head to try and hide it.

“Ha,” Tony says, a loud, indignant exclamation that makes Steve laugh. And then Tony picks up a pillow and hits him with it, and that makes him laugh even harder.

Tony punctuates each little impact with another sarcastic “ha” as Steve curls up into a ball of laughter and feigned defenses. And just as he’s feeling particularly safe from the fluffy onslaught, Tony’s wet lips press against the sensitive spot on the side of his neck and he cringes at how it tickles and tingles.

Tony kisses him again, less wet, more serious, and Steve closes his eyes and smiles, leaning to the side so his neck’s completely open to whatever Tony wants to do with it.

Tony gets up instead. “Gotta pee,” he says, and then smirks. “With my tiny dick.”

Steve grins, watching him walk away. Listens to the stream, because there’s nothing to distract him from the sound. It’s a small apartment. Hard to be apart. He likes this private closeness even more than he expected.

Tony saunters back from the bathroom, hips moving deliberately from side to side and Steve is struck by just how sexy he can be, just walking. And then Tony swings a leg over him, straddles his waist, and then –

Starts patting his hands on Steve’s chest, like he’s playing the drums. “You should get out more,” he says. “Let’s do something fun.”

Steve pretends not to be thrown by this, smiles like he knew Tony was just being playful all along. “Like what?”

Tony bites his lip, hands still striking the dull percussion through Steve’s chest, like he’s bored. Is he bored? That’s not good. “How do you feel about paraskiing?”

“Depends what it is.”

Tony smiles. “It’s like skiing, but you jump out of a helicopter onto the snow.”

Snow and falling. Two of his not-favorite-things. Bad memories. He bites his lip. Doesn’t let himself go down that path.

“Okay, how about drag racing?”

“Where do we do that?”

“I know a place. And you can just say no, you don’t have to make a face.”

“I wasn’t making a face.” He’s not making a face. He’s trying to forget.

“You were,” Tony insists. “I will grant that it was cute, but it was still a face.”

“What else do you expect to see on the front of my head?”

Tony grins. “Okay, smart ass. How about a club?”

“What kind of club?”

“Right, good point, you would hate that.”

“I just asked –”

Tony presses a finger against his lip. “Shh. Don’t even worry about it. I just had the perfect idea.”

“Which is?”

“A secret.”

“I’m not agreeing to a secret.”

Tony frowns. “You are absolutely no fun.”

Steve gives him a disapproving look, hoping there’s no hint of truth behind that joke. Distracted by his petty need to be liked.

“Okay,” Tony says, breaking into a smile. “You’re fun. And because you’re fun, you’re going to agree to come to California with me tonight without knowing what we’re going to do there.”

“Tonight?”

“After the New York thing. We’ll sleep on the plane, spend tomorrow there, come back Sunday night, and I’ll have you to work just like a good little boy.”

Steve hesitates.

“I promise, it is nothing I wouldn’t do with a 12 year old.”

“Wouldn’t, or shouldn’t?”

“Why, Steven, I’m scandalized,” Tony says, affecting what sounds like a southern accent, throwing his hand over his heart before breaking into a deep laugh, leaning back against Steve’s bent knees.

“Okay,” he says, shaking his head, smiling. “Let’s go.”

“To California.”

Steve nods. “To California. What are we doing there?”

“A surprise,” Tony says. “You’ll have fun. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Steve says, running his thumb across Tony’s fingers. “I trust you to tell me what we’re doing.”

A slow smile spreads across Tony’s face, as though that statement gets more amusing as he thinks about it. “That’s some pretty limited trust.”

Steve smiles.

“Also misplaced,” Tony adds, smirking. “I’m not gonna tell.”

“I guess I don’t trust you, then,” Steve says, a lazy smile on his lips. This is fun.

Tony caresses his jaw, up the side of his cheek, and then slides his hands over Steve’s lips, pinches his nose.

Steve raises an eyebrow, a silent question because there are hands between his vocal cords and the air.

Tony lets go. “You do trust me.”

Steve grins. “I could overpower you,” he clarifies.

“Okay, then tell me your most embarrassing secret.”

“That I’m shaking up with you,” Steve says.

Tony pouts. “I am _not_ embarrassing,” he says.

Steve smiles, trying to keep it light but that’s not exactly what it is. “That’s not what I meant.”

“So you do trust me.”

“Kinda have to,” Steve says, fighting off the grin.

“Wow,” Tony says. “That’s not very romantic. I knew it. You’re just using me for my body.”

Steve smiles. “ _And_ I love you.”

“And that,” Tony says, leaning over him so his lips are just inches from Steve’s, biting his lip. “But mostly my body,”

Steve grins. “Mostly,” he agrees, before kissing him.

****

It’s a little while before he remembers that he invited Tony along without checking with Theresa, and that’s when he remembers she is going to be there, and that’s when he realizes exactly how it’s going to look if he shows up with an extra person, an extra male person, and then he feels a little bit queasy.

“I didn’t ask if it was okay for you to come with me today,” he says, pausing, giving Tony a chance to say he’ll stay home, even though he knows that’s not coming.

“So ask,” Tony says. He’s laying on the bed, tossing his phone into the air and catching it like it’s a flat, rectangular baseball. Steve’s sitting on the floor next to him.

“Isn’t it a little rude to –”

“You’re not trying to get out of this, are you?”

Yes. Obviously. “No.”

“Then text her.”

“Isn’t it a little rude to –”

“Text her.”

“I should call.”

“What, and interrupt her day? Send a text.”

“What if she doesn’t see it?”

Tony rolls onto his stomach. “Sweetheart, of the two of us, who owns a company that makes phones?”

Steve sighs. “I still think it’s rude.”

He gets up, finds his phone. He hasn’t missed any calls. Or texts. But then, the only person who would call or text is with him.

He settles back down on the floor, very aware of Tony leaning behind him. Types ‘Do you mind if I bring Tony?’

Watches it send.

‘Tony Stark,’ he adds, for clarity.

“I’m proud of you,” Tony mumbles, chin resting on his shoulder, and Steve shouldn’t appreciate that because there’s nothing to be proud of here, but he does anyway.

****

Steve insists that if Tony is going, he’s going in disguise. And Tony agrees, shaving his goatee as Steve looks on, making a crack about how he didn’t think they’d invented five blade razors in the forties. Steve ignores that and kisses him in between the angle of his jaw and the residual shaving cream on his ear.

Tony digs through his clothes until he finds one of the shirts that fits Steve like a sausage casing. It’s still loose on him.

“Where are those jeans I bought you?”

“Which ones?”

“Uh, I dunno, they’re jeans? They make your butt look fantastic.”

“I don’t look at my own butt.”

“Hmm,” Tony says, frowning, one hand creeping down Steve’s back. “Well, you’re really missing out, then.”

Steve smiles, looks down, pushes Tony’s hand away before it hits his butt, and then thinks better and interlaces their fingers instead. “We could always go get something from your place.”

“Uhh, obviously the entire point of being incognito would be ruined if I was in my own clothes.”

“Obviously,” Steve says.

“And, maybe I want to get into your pants,” Tony says, seductive, and then almost immediately followed by a condescending explanation. “That’s a slang phrase that means have sex in this millennium, I forget that you –”

“I know what it means,” Steve says, smiles, swats at Tony’s shoulder but barely makes contact.

“You see, kids these days just keep making up new phrases, and I know it’s hard for you senior citizens –”

“I _know_ what it .”

“Or,” Tony says, pressing up against him. “We could stay here and I could _figuratively_ get into your pants.”

Steve smiles against his face, against his lips, runs his hands over the curve of Tony’s ass and maybe it’s mean to play with him this way, but it’s fun. “Jeans.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, smirks, leaning hard against Steve’s thigh so Steve can feel that he’s half hard already. “Okay. Whatever.”

A pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and a baseball cap later and Tony stands before him looking… pretty much the same.

“I really don’t think this is going to work,” Steve says.

Tony frowns. “Why not?”

“You –” Steve pauses, wonders how Tony is looking in the mirror and not seeing this – “Don’t look any different.”

“Not to you, I don’t,” Tony says, and then wrinkles his nose. “Well, maybe not for anyone. But no one’s gonna recognize me.”

Steve frowns.

“I’ve been doing this for years. I’ve got the whole public persona. I show up often enough. People see sunglasses and goatee and they think Iron Man. You make yourself easy to find, no one’s gonna go looking.”

He’s still not convinced.

Tony shrugs. “We can pick up some Ray-Bans. I’ll punch the lenses out and it’ll look like those hipster glasses everyone wears.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t –”

“Uh. Uh-uh-uh,” Tony says. “Nope. You committed. No backing out now. I look fine. No one is going to recognize me.”

“Okay.”

“Hey,” Tony says, pushing Steve’s cheeks upward gently with his thumbs. “Happy. Smile. We’re gonna go have fun.”

Steve lets himself smile, and Tony kisses him, and maybe this _will_ be fun.

“Oh,” Tony says, and then he’s cutting across the room to his jacket, where he pulls out what looks like a flask.

He catches Steve’s eye as he turns around and shrugs. “Never know what the scotch situation is going to be like.”

*****

They meet Theresa at a pizza place where, as Tony predicted, the ‘scotch situation’ is lacking.

She turns red when she sees them walking up, mumbles her way through introductions. As soon as Tony steps away to get a better look at the menu she leans over and hisses in Steve’s ear. “I thought you were joking.”

Steve takes a break from frowning at the word ‘arugula’ to frown at her. “About what?”

“Tony Stark,” she whispers, so quiet he can barely hear her over the din of the crowd.

“Why would I joke about that?”

“Because I – the other day –” she waves her hands in the air. “Forget about it. I mean, holy shit. Tony Stark. Is here. Wow.”

“Not so loud,” Steve whispers. “He’s incognito.”

She folds her arms over her chest and nods. “Okay. Yeah. Sure.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and then – ”Wait. He’s incognito? Shouldn’t that involve a disguise?”

Steve laughs. “He thinks he’s wearing one.”

He watches Tony and it strikes him that there is something so unexpectedly gratifying about being here with him, about talking about him, with someone else, and knowing that Tony is his, even if no one else does.

Maybe only because no one else does.

****

“So,” Tony says. “What do you want to do with your life?”

He’s holding his slice in one hand, leaning backward. “Shit,” he adds, as the grease runs down his wrist. Looks particularly seductive licking it up.

Theresa giggles. “I’m a nurse,” she says.

“And that tells me absolutely nothing about what you want to do,” Tony says, with a bit of an arrogant smile.

“I want to be a nurse,” she says.

“Okay, fine,” he says. “If you had to pick something else.”

Theresa frowns, cocks her head, bites her lip. “I think I’d write historical fiction.”

Tony grins. “Well, that’s perfect,” he says. “Steve is historical fiction.”

Steve is not sure how that’s an insult but is very sure that it is one, and Theresa laughs.

“How do you figure?” She asks.

“Well,’ Tony says. “Historical, obviously. And,” he says, gesturing at Steve’s body, “fiction.”

“I’m not fictional.”

“Science fiction, maybe,” Theresa says.

Tony nods. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you. Historical science fiction.”

“No,” Steve says, a quick shake of his head. “He’s the one flying around in a tin can. That’s science fiction.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Tin can?”

“Gold titanium alloy,” Steve amends, grinning, catching his eye for just a second too long and then looking away like he’s been burned. Wondering if Theresa noticed. Wondering if it’s even possible for him to look at Tony without giving away his feelings.

This whole time Tony’s foot has been against Steve’s, and now Tony moves it up his calf and he has to fight off the blush.

“How about you?” Theresa asks.

The question isn’t clearly directed at either of them, so Tony’s the one who answers it. “What would I be doing? Exactly what I’m doing. The real question is Steve, what do you want to do with your life?”

What would he want to do with his life?

“What I’ve been doing,” he says.

Tony shakes his head. “Pretend that’s not an option.”

“Illustrate comic books.” It’s the easy answer. It’s been on the tip of his tongue for years.

He’s just not sure it’s true anymore.

Not sure there’s anything he’s good for, anything he’d want to be doing, if he’s not Captain America. Before that, sure. But now, he’s had a bit of that life and he doesn’t want to give it up.

He’s not Captain America. Not anymore.

But, if he were. He wouldn’t want to not be.

It takes him too long to realize they’re not as focused on this question as he is. That they’ve moved on, started talking comic books, and he just puts his straw in his mouth so he doesn’t have to talk.

What does he want to do with his life? What’s the point of his life, anyway?

Tony’s foot brushes against his again, once, twice, too clearly to be a mistake and he looks up in time to catch a wink, so fast it could be his imagination.

He remembers the feeling of Tony’s tongue pressing up against him and his hips tilt of their own accord, like he’s trying to press himself against Tony’s face. Can almost feel the scratch of his beard. It would be even better once the stubble grows back in.

He exhales a little too sharply, willing that thought away. They’re in public. They’re surrounded by strangers. He doesn’t need an erection right now.

If those strangers knew they were dating, would they know what it meant? Would they look at Steve and picture Tony’s tongue against his asshole? Would they see them and know, right away, that Steve likes the idea of having a cock inside of him? And not just in his mouth?

They would have to know.

Maybe that’s what bothers him too.

****

They walk around, aimlessly, or at least as aimlessly as Tony’s allowing it to look as he takes the lead.

The city looks so different like this at night, lit up and busy, and by different he means all the same. All foreign. He’d spent so many walks trying to get ahold of his hometown again, and it still feels like he’s being led through here for the first time.

Theresa asks him what’s changed and even though he’s definitely been here often enough before, he can barely orient himself enough to figure out where. His home disappeared – no, changed – overnight and he hasn’t even bothered to adjust to it.

But there’s still something undeniably fun about doing this with Tony, of getting to show Theresa around and share their two very different experiences of the same places. Maybe he can get used to this. If it’s Tony’s world.

If any of Tony’s outrageous stories have any element of truth to them.

“Let’s walk through Central Park.”

Theresa frowns. “Is it safe at night?”

“We’re with Captain America,” Tony says. “Everything is safe.”

Steve isn’t sure if that’s a dig at him. He could protect them from anything out here. He hopes he doesn’t have to, but he could.

Out of a habit he’s almost forgotten, but which feels right as soon as it comes on, he scans the surroundings, keeps an eye out for dangerous movement. He’s sure they’re safe. He’s safe, at least. Nothing can hurt him. He can’t even die. He doesn’t need to be aware of his surroundings. Nothing that could try to hurt him poses more of a threat than the thought of living forever does.

He jumps as Tony’s hand brushes against his, snatching his arm away immediately. Then Tony reaches for it again. And as he does that he realizes that Tony’s holding Theresa’s hand on the other side. He glances around even though he knows no one is looking at them and then he takes Tony’s hand, and Tony swings their arms back and forth in an exaggerated motion, like they’re schoolkids, and Steve smiles. Leave it to Tony to find the perfect way to touch without looking inappropriate.

By the end of the walk he is in a good mood, a great one. This is where he should be. A friend. A boyfriend. Nature. The inkling that something could still be a threat to his life. These are the things that sustain him now.

Theresa lives outside of the city, so he doesn’t need to explain why he’s leaving with Tony and she’s leaving alone. Tony takes the lead on that one anyway, hailing her a cab like a perfect gentleman. Turning on his charm.

It’s odd how nice it is to watch Tony flirt with someone else, safe in the understanding that Tony is still his. It’s like being flirted with himself, only safer. God, he loves how easily Tony connects with people. Loves watching him like this.

“Let me know if you write anything worth publishing,” Tony says. “I know a person who knows a person who probably knows a person, so –”

Theresa smiles. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Steve waves as her cab takes off, and then Tony has his hand. People could be watching. But he doesn’t protest.

“Now you and I have a date,” Tony says, as his car pulls up. And Steve bites back the objections, the concerns that it is irresponsible to just take off in the middle of the weekend, his promises be damned. Instead, he follows Tony into the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by Chardonnay mixed with blueberry lemonade. Not the whole chapter. Just the willingness to finish it off tonight and not obsess more about perfection (comments about typos super appreciated as a result). 
> 
> And the timing is great because I sent a high stakes e-mail today, so now instead of worrying about the response to that I can worry that someone will discover that I am a giant fraud and leave me a horribly mean comment pointing out all of my flaws. I know I cannot be the only writer who expects this to happen one day, right?


	22. Chapter 22

Hey everyone,

I apologize to anyone who opened this expecting an actual new chapter. I kinda hate it when people do this. However, I just realized it has been almost a full year since I updated this fic so I figured I need to give you an update on my writing situation, and I'm not sure how else to ensure interested parties notice it.

In short: I'm still here. I still think about this fic a whole lot. But thanks to a series of really awesome things that have happened in my life, I have been remiss in actually writing it. 

Primary awesome things: 1. I spent a ton of time applying for and then got into a really intense graduate program, which I just started. 2. I have an awesome boyfriend and we are both really clingy people and spent almost all of our time together until I moved across the country from him for said program. 

What does this mean for you? Well. Currently, I am being prompted by everyone in my program to think of my time as class time, study time, and sleep time. However, I am also being urged to maintain my hobbies to avoid a mental breakdown. So, hopefully I will be able to drop my netflix hobby, as well as my candy crush hobby, and potentially my scrolling-through-a-facebook-news-feed-I-have-already-read-and-was-bored-by-the-first-time hobby and instead adopt writing and potentially running (ew) as my primary Hobbies.

If I am successful, then you could probably expect fairly regular updates every month or two. If not, maybe every 4 or 5. At very least, I have this next chapter fairly well planned and partially written and I promise it is coming. From there, who knows? Worst case scenario, I will graduate in 2 years and drop the rest of this on you at that time.

In closing, thank you to everyone who has read this far, both in the fic and in this similarly overly verbose update note. I can't tell you how wonderful it is to get comments from people who have enjoyed or connected with my writing. And hopefully you will be hearing from me again soon!


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